The professionals resemble and recognize each other by virtue of the stigmata that their trade has left upon them. They are like the dog in the fable, whose collar has made an indelible mark around his neck. The amateur is the shaggy wolf whom no dog had better trust too far.

Of course, clothing fashions have always been impractical, except in Tahiti.

It is always some illusion that creates disillusion, especially in the young, for whom the only alternative to perfection is cynicism.

Maxims in times of danger are useless, experience is incommunicable. The knotted strands of life, desire, assumptions, and moral codes cannot be unsnarled; they can only be cut, which is what happens when an air raid occurs, with a silencing fortissimo like the finale of a Beethoven symphony.

Idealism springs from deep feelings, but feelings are nothing without the formulated idea that keeps them whole.

It seems a long time since the morning mail could be called correspondence.

It is only in the shadows, when some fresh wave, truly original, truly creative, breaks upon the shore, that there will be a rediscovery of the West.