Poor little men, poor little cocks! As soon as they're old enough, they swell their plumage to be conquerors. If they only knew that it's enough to be just a little bit wounded and sad in order to obtain everything without fighting for it.

There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy.

Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

Life is very nice, but it lacks form. It's the aim of art to give it some.

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.

Life has a way of setting things in order and leaving them be. Very tidy, is life.

In your efforts to dazzle us your reasoning has gone awry. You know very well that love is, above all, the gift of oneself.