People come to Paris, to the capital, to give their lives a sense of belonging, of an almost mythical participation in society.

The solitude of writing is a solitude without which writing could not be produced, or would crumble, drained bloodless by the search for something else to write.

A prolonged silence ensues. The reason for the silence is our growing interest one for the other. No one is aware of it, no one yet; no one? am I quite sure?

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.

When the past is recaptured by the imagination, breath is put back into life.

That she had so completely recovered her sanity was a source of sadness to her. One should never be cured of one's passion.

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.