She makes use of the soft of the bread for a napkin. She falls asleep at times with shoes on, on unmade beds. When a little money comes in, June buys delicacies, strawberries in the winter, caviar and bath salts.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.

Nature forms us for ourselves, not for others; to be, not to seem.

The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair. I will be the one woman you will never have...excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.

I see enormous loves growing immense and finally crushing me.