A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.

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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.

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For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.

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There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.

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I do not like the companionship of women. They are petty and personal. They hang on to their mysteries and secrets, they act and pretend. I like the character of men better.

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I hate men who are afraid of women's strength.

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There is no forgiveness. For women. A man may lose his honor and regain it again. But a woman cannot. She cannot.

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A man may ask anything of a woman, but unless he wishes to behave like a brute, he must make it possible for her to act in harmony with her deepest self-deceptions.

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She knew that there were all kinds of ways to make a conquest and that one of the surest roads to a woman's genitals was through her sadness.

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She is sadder and sadder, and for a man there is no balm more soothing than the sadness he has caused a woman.

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