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

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

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

I’ve never wanted to meet anyone I’ve been introduced to. I want to meet all the other people.

A rowdy bunch on the whole, they were most of them so violently individualistic as to be practically interchangeable.

To me Vivien Leigh was a tragic heroine of classic proportions: chosen, blessed and abandoned by the gods. Obstinately she tried to control and defy her destiny and to know her story is to be inspired by pity and terror.

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.