Of course the illusion of art is to make one believe that great literature is very close to life, but exactly the opposite is true. Life is amorphous, literature is formal.

One can never speak enough of the virtues, the dangers, the power of shared laughter.

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.

I've tried very hard and I've never found any resemblance between the people I know and the people in my novels.

Nothing brings on jealousy like laughter.

It isn't common sense that is paramount in this world, it's wishful thinking.

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.