At night, time becomes a calm sea. It goes on for ever.

Illness is the opposite of freedom. It makes everything impossible.

A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of it's complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.

After Proust, there are certain things that simply cannot be done again. He marks off for you the boundaries of your talent.

No one, but no one, ever behaves 'well' in bed unless they love or are loved - two conditions seldom fulfilled.

My love of pleasure seems to be the only consistent side of my character. Is it because I have not read enough?

Writing is just having a sheet of paper, a pen and not a shadow of an idea of what you are going to say.