It's amazing how right you can be about a person you don't know; it's only the people you do know who confuse you.

It's difficult to explain, but I just somehow feel that I never really *have* lived; that I never really will live--exist or whatever--in the sense that other people do. It drives me crazy. I was terribly aware of it all those nights waiting for you in the Ritz bar looking around at what seemed to be real grown-up lives. I just find everybody else's life surrounded by plate glass. I mean I'd like to break through it just once and actually touch one.

I always expect people to behave much better than I do. When they actually behave worse, I am frankly incredulous.

The world is wide, wide, wide, and I am young, young, young, and we’re all going to live forever!

The vehemence of my moral indignation surprised me. Was I beginning to have standards and principles, and, oh dear, scruples? What were they, and what would I do with them, and how much were they going to get in my way?

I find I always have to write something on a steamed mirror.

What’s the use of remembering anything? If it was unpleasant it was unpleasant and if it was pleasant it’s over.