No one is more conventional than a woman who is falling out of love.

Money may not buy happiness, but I'd rather cry in a Jaguar than on a bus.

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.

I recognize limitations in the sense that I've read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and Shakespeare . . . Aside from that I don't think of limiting myself.

For what are we looking for if not to please? I do not know if the desire to attract others comes from a superabundance of vitality, possessiveness, or the hidden, unspoken need to be reassured.

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

The happiness of people who are in love and who are loved shows in their faces. They have an expression that's at once very far away and very much part of the present.