Paris is the only city in the world where starving to death is still considered an art.

We all give up great expectations along the way.

I became a writer, a teller of tales, because otherwise I would have died... or worse.

Our world will not die as the result of the bomb, as the papers say, it will die of laughter, of banality, or making a joke of everything, and a lousy joke at that.

In my schoolboy reveries, we were always two fugitives riding on the spine of a book, eager to escape into worlds of fiction and secondhand dreams.

She was seventeen, her entire life shining on her lips.

The wider the author's arsenal of tools and the better technically equipped the storyteller is, the better the tale will be.