Come, let’s be calm: no one incapable of restraint was ever a writer.

Of all possible debauches, traveling is the greatest that I know; that's the one they invented when they got tired of all the others.

As for the piano, the faster her fingers flew over it, the more he marveled. She struck the keys with aplomb and ran from one end of the keyboard to the other without a stop.

Women want you to deceive them: they force you to, and if you resist, they blame you.

There are neither good nor bad subjects. From the point of view of pure Art, you could almost establish it as an axiom that the subject is irrelevant, style itself being an absolute manner of seeing things.

Sometimes I think I'm liquefying like an old Camembert.

A good sentence in prose should be like a good line in poetry, unchangeable, as rhythmic, as sonorous.