All my life, as down an abyss without a bottom. I have been pouring van loads of information into that vacancy of oblivion I call my mind.

Those who talk on the razor-edge of double-meanings pluck the rarest blooms from the precipice on either side.

Give me a bed and a book and I am happy.

I find a fascination, like the fascination for the moth of a star, in those who hold aloof and disdain me.

If it's to be, it's up to me.

I might give my life for my friend, but he had better not ask me to do up a parcel.

One's own vanities and humiliations I find a delicious subject for conversation. Things said of me behind my back I don't enjoy, and don't listen to them.