Usually I avoided college students, whom I considered brutal, wrapped up in themselves, particularly in their youth, in which they found material for drama or an excuse for their own boredom. I did not care for young people.

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

There is no such thing as an ideal man. The ideal man is the man you love at the moment.

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

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.

A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men to take it off of you.

A love affair based on jealousy is doomed from the start ... It is certanly a sign of love, but it's a sign that it's already dying.