Remorse Is Impotence, Impotence Which Sins Again.

Man's Condition Is Horrible Because, No Matter What Form His Happiness May Take, It Arises From Some Species Of Ignorance.

The Human Heart May Find Here And There A Resting-place Short Of The Highest Height Of Affection, But We Seldom Stop In The Steep, Downward Slope Of Hatred.

If Certain Women Walk Straight Into Adultery, There Are Many Others Who Cling To Numerous Hopes, And Commit Sin Only After Wandering Through A Maze Of Sorrows.

Innocence Alone Dares Commit Certain Acts Of Audacity. Virtue, When Tutored, Is As Calculating As Vice.

What Moralists Describe As The Mysteries Of The Human Heart Are Solely The Deceiving Thoughts, The Spontaneous Impulses Of Self-regard. The Sudden Changes In Character, About Which So Much Has Been Said, Are Instinctive Calculations For The Furtherance Of Our Own Pleasures. Seeing Himself Now In His Fine Clothes, His New Gloves And Shoes, Eugène De Rastignac Forgot His Noble Resolve. Youth, When It Swerves Toward Wrong, Dares Not Look In The Mirror Of Conscience; Maturity Has Already Seen Itself There. That Is The Whole Difference Between The Two Phases Of Life.