The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to us.
Life, Lady Stutfield, is simply a mauvais quart d'heure made up of exquisite moments.
We practical men like to see things, not to read about them.
Oh, duty is what one expects from others, it is not what one does oneself.
As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action.
Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes.