I was thinking that I should be content to kiss him until the break of day. Bertrand ran out of kisses too soon; desire made them superfluous in his eyes. They were only a stage on the road to pleasure, not something inexhaustible and self-sufficient, as Luc had revealed them to me.

The one thing I regret is that I will never have time to read all the books I want to read.

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

He lifted me up and held me close against him, my head on his shoulder. At that moment I loved him. In the morning light he was as golden, as soft, as gentle as myself, and he would protect me.

For me writing is a question of finding a certain rhythm. I compare it to the rhythms of jazz.

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

Art must take reality by surprise.