He admired, yet he wished to be admired He hated irony in anyone else He was not always sorry when his teasing hurt He felt things, he did not study them He was in fact not a philosopher, but a sentimentalist He had only made of his wife an incident in his life He didn't always side with the majority He does not love Pierre; but he does not pretend to love him He was strong enough to admit ignorance He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement He left his fellow-citizens very much alone He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it He had tasted freedom; he was near to license He borrowed no trouble He wishes to be rude to some one, and is disappointed He's a barber-shop philosopher Heaven where wives without number awaited him Her sight was bounded by the little field where she strayed Her voice had the steadiness of despair Her stronger soul ruled him without his knowledge Her own suffering always set her laughing at herself Highsterics, they call it His courtesy was not on the same expansive level as his vanity His duties were many, or he made them so His gift for lying was inexpressible Honesty was a thing he greatly desired--in others How little we can know to-day what we shall feel tomorrow How can one force one's heart? No, no! One has to wait How many sons have ever added to their father's fame? How many conquests have been made in the name of God How can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom Hunger for happiness is robbery I love that love in which I married him I was never good at catechism I said I was not falling in love--I am in love I am only myself when I am drunk I have a good memory for forgetting I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me I like when I like, and I like a lot when I like I always did what was wrong, and liked it--nearly always I should remember to forget it I don't believe in walking just for the sake of walking I don't think. I'm old enough to know I can't pay you for your kindness to me, and I don't want to I had to listen to him, and he had to pay me for listening I was born insolent I--couldn't help it If you have a good thought, act on it If one remembers, why should the other forget If women hadn't memory, she answered, they wouldn't have much If fumbling human fingers do not meddle with it Illusive hopes and irresponsible deceptions Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love Importunity with discretion was his motto In all secrets there is a kind of guilt In her heart she never can defy the world as does a man Inclined to resent his own insignificance Instinct for detecting veracity, having practised on both sides Interfere with people who had a trade and didn't understand it Irishmen have gifts for only two things--words and women Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting