Good writing is good conversation, only more so.

The smallest coffins are the heaviest.

Got tight on absinthe last night. Did knife tricks.

No one ever stopped when they were winning.

The bicycle riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves.

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home and in Paris.