Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or heroes.

It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply an artificial stage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse all phases of the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are begun elsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears the living embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator.

I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.

I had learned to harness ignorance with presumption. I was ready to become an unacknowledged watercolorist.

The full and joyful acceptance of the worst in oneself may be the only sure way of transforming it.

He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment.

To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts.