All my life, I will continue obstinately to write about love, solitude and passion among the kind of people I know. The rest don't interest me.

It seems to me that there are two kinds of trickery: the "fronts" people assume before one another's eyes, and the "front" a writer puts on the face of reality.

It would be bad form for me to describe people I don't know and don't understand.

Love lasts about seven years. That's how long it takes for the cells of the body to totally replace themselves.

It amused me to think that one can tell the truth when one is drunk and nobody will believe it.

You should celebrate the end of a love affair as they celebrate death in New Orleans, with songs, laughter, dancing and a lot of wine.

I've often found myself preferring second-rate people to supposedly superior people, simply and solely because of their uncontrollable tendency to bang themselves against the sides of life's vast lampshade like fireflies or moths.