Great novels are always a little more intelligent than their authors.

She is sadder and sadder, and for a man there is no balm more soothing than the sadness he has caused a woman.

And I ran after that voice through the streets so as not to lose sight of the splendid wreath of bodies gliding over the city, and I realized with anguish in my heart that they were flying like birds and I was falling like a stone, that they had wings and I would never have any.

Seeing is limited by two borders: Strong light, which blinds, and total darkness.

I find myself fascinating.

Yes, it's crazy. Love is either crazy or it's nothing at all.

Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).