Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.

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

Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.

It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.

Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds

Whatever the heart desires, it purchases at the cost of soul