I think the best way to waste time is to try to save time.

If you don't have imagination you're lost. But it's a virtue that's becoming increasingly rare, especially in its higher form: spontaneity. Mad, happy spontaneity.

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

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.

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

We are torn between the craving to know and the despair of having known.

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