Perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place.

It is only the modern that ever becomes old-fashioned.

My Salome is a mystic the sister of Salammbô a Saint Thérèse who worships the moon.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable.

The world was my oyster but I used the wrong fork.

Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world.