Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win.

I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.

Old lovers go the way of old photographs, bleaching out gradually as in a slow bath of acid: first the moles and pimples, then the shadings. Then the faces themselves, until nothing remains but the general outlines.

Popular art is the dream of society; it does not examine itself.

Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring.

The bell that measures time is ringing

Blondes are like white mice, you only find them in cages. They wouldn’t last long in nature. They’re too conspicuous.