happiness has always seemed to me a great achievement.

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

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.

I had a strong desire to write and some free time.

I have loved to the point of madness; That which is called madness, That which to me, Is the only sensible way to love.

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

In love, as in finance, only the rich can get credit.