It was the men I deceived the most that I loved the most.

You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die.

Nowhere is one more alone than in Paris ... and yet surrounded by crowds. Nowhere is one more likely to incur greater ridicule. And no visit is more essential.

I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

No other human being, no woman, no poem or music, book or painting can replace alcohol in its power to give man the illusion of real creation.

I am dead. I have no desire for you. My body no longer wants the one who doesn’t love.

He wanted to pay her; he thought women ought to be paid for keeping men from dying or going out of their minds.