Common sense, in so far as it exists, is all for the bourgeoisie. Nonsense is the privilege of the aristocracy. The worries of the world are for the common people.

The sweetest memory is that which involves something which one should not have done; the bitterest, that which involves something which one should not have done, and which one did not do.

A broken heart is a monument to a love that will never die; fulfillment is a monument to a love that is already on its deathbed.

The path of sound credence is through the thick forest of skepticism.

Sex touches the heavens only when it simultaneously touches the gutter and the mud.

The Russian dramatist is one who, walking through a cemetery, does not see the flowers on the graves. The American dramatist . . . Does not see the graves under the flowers.

What passes for woman's intuition is more often intrinsically nothing more than man's transparency.