Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.

Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.

For you who no longer possess it, freedom is everything, for us who do, it is merely an illusion.

I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.

I do not want to see BP nickel and diming these businesses that are having a tough time.

The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.