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

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.

Suddenly, all at once, she knows, knows that he doesn't understand her, that he never will, that he lacks the power to understand such perverseness. And that he can never move fast enough to catch her.

Even so you have managed to live that love in the only way possible for you. Losing it before it happened.

Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.

One must talk. That's how it is. One must.

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