That must be wonderful; I have no idea of what it means.

Of course, true love is exceptional - two or three times a century, more or less. The rest of the time there is vanity or boredom.

Without freedom, no art; art lives only on the restraints it imposes on itself, and dies of all others.

The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits.

Whoever gives nothing, has nothing. The greatest misfortune is not to be unloved, but not to love.

Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: 'Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.

Forever I shall be a stranger to myself. In psychology as in logic, there are truths but no truth.