There is nothing like early promiscuous sex for dispelling life's bright mysterious expectations.

When does one ever know a human being? Perhaps only after one has realized the impossibility of knowledge and renounced the desire for it and finally ceased to feel even the need of it. But then what one achieves is no longer knowledge, it is simply a kind of co-existence; and this too is one of the guises of love.

Actors are cave dwellers in a rich darkness which they love and hate.

Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.

One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats, and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured so much the better.

So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.

Every artist is an unhappy lover. And unhappy lovers want to tell their story.