You should celebrate the end of a love affair as they celebrate death in New Orleans, with songs, laughter, dancing and a lot of wine.

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

Every time I see a film about Joan of Arc I'm convinced she'll get away with it. It's the only way to get through life.

For this was the round of love: fear which leads on desire, tenderness and fury, and that brutal anguish which triumphantly follows pleasure.

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

Love is worth whatever it costs.

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.