As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early 'forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.

All cowardice comes from not truly loving, or at least, not loving well.

We thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also as a great giver of happiness and well being and delight.

You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.

I would walk along the quais when I had finished work or when I was trying to think something out. It was easier to think if I was walking and doing something or seeing people doing something that they understood.

I learned never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.

Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.