Life, that is Paris! Paris, that is life!
To a woman who knows her own mind men can only be a minor consideration.
To live, to have so much ambition, to suffer, to cry, to fight and, at the end, forgetfulness ... as if I had never existed.
What am I? Nothing. What would I be? Everything.
... I will never love, for I should never be loved as I desire to be loved.
I want to live faster, faster, faster! ... I fear that this desire to live always at high pressure is the presage of a short existence. Who knows?