The conclusion does not belong to the artist.

The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.

When sometimes, behind his back, they called him a tyrant, he merely smiled and uttered this profound observation: If some day I turn liberal, they will say I have let them down.

She might have liked to try to strangle him with those slender fingers of hers, but she wanted to make a job of it and this great patience with which she waited for her claws to grow was in itself a form of enjoyment.

If people can just love each other a little bit, they can be so happy.

Perfection is such a nuisance that I often regret having cured myself of using tobacco.

It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.