If choice trumped biology, men would divorce their children instead of their wives.
Love is an ideal thing, marriage a real thing; a confusion of the real with the ideal never goes unpunished.
If the object of desire is rich, we call it gold-digging; if handsome, lust; if clever, fascination; and if he has no discernible appeal, we call it love.
Once you see human interaction as a contest to signal mating fitness, you never see it as anything else.
When a woman tells a man she’s married, she means she doesn’t want to sleep with him; when a man tells a woman he’s married, he means he’s heterosexual.
The more logical feminists, beginning by giving up sex roles, end by giving up sex.
Spouses never quite forgive each other their existence before they met.
Beautiful women become bored with hearing that they are beautiful because it is the only truth they are ever told.
The honeymoon ends with the first sigh.
Between machismo and boyishness lies a large and almost entirely unexploited market niche.
No universally acclaimed institution has a more dismal track record than marrying for love.