If you are at the mercy of what they call print interviews and the mercy of people who write about you, they can always tell lies.

In Southern Europe, we have, of course, very bad governments.

Sex is. There is nothing more to be done about it. Sex builds no roads, writes no novels and sex certainly gives no meaning to anything in life but itself.

Love and hate are so confused in your savage minds and the vibrations of the one are so very like those of the other that I can't always distinguish. You see, we neither love nor hate in my world. We simply have hobbies.

I’m not sentimental about anything. Life flows by, and you flow with it or you don’t. Move on and move out.

You hear all this whining going on, "Where are our great writers?" The thing I might feel doleful about is: Where are the readers?

You know, I've been around the ruling class all my life, and I've been quite aware of their total contempt for the people of the country.