The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment.

For one cannot change, that is to say become another person, while continuing to acquiesce to the feelings of the person one no longer is.

And indeed when we are no longer in love with women whom we meet after many years, is there not the abyss of death between them and ourselves, just as much as if they were no longer of this world, since the fact that we are no longer in love makes the people that they were or the person that we were then as good as dead?

I should have been happy: I wasn’t.

But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years - and it opens.

She's got feet like boats, whiskers like an American, and her undies are filthy.

A picture's beauty does not depend on the things portrayed in it.