When I stand at the top of the Champs-Elysées, with its chestnut trees in flower, its undulations of shining cars, its white spaciousness, I feel as if I were biting into a utopian fruit, something velvety and lustrous and rich and vivid.

Memory is a great betrayer.

They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.

Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.

Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you.

Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.

I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.