One passes through the world knowing few, if any, of the important things about even the people with whom one has been from time to time in the closest intimacy.
Writing is above all a question of instinct.
A dance to the music of time.
Self-love seems so often unrequited.
There is, after all, no pleasure like that given by a woman who really wants to see you.
He fell in love with himself at first sight and it is a passion to which he has always remained faithful. Selflove seems so often unrequited.