You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.

It's only women who are not really quite women at all, frivolous women who have no idea, who neglect repairs.

In a certain state of mind, all trace of feeling is banished. Whenever I remain silent in a certain way, I don't love you, have you noticed that?

It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

When it's in a book I don't think it'll hurt any more ...exist any more. One of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.

The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.

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