In Paris, you couldn't really turn around without seeing the result of lovers' bad decisions. An artist given to sexual excess was almost a cliché, but no one seemed to mind. As long as you were making something good or interesting or sensational, you could have as many lovers as you wanted and ruin them all.

I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.

Maybe no one can know how it is for anyone else.

The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?

I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.

Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.

Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind.