It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.

You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.

Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

after all the work of the philosophers on his soul and the doctors on his body, what can we really say we know about a man? That he is, when all is said and done, just a passage for liquids and solids, a pipe of flesh.

I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time - those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.

We should tackle reality in a slightly jokey way, otherwise we miss its point.