Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.

To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought...?

Myth is neither a lie nor a confession: it is an inflexion.

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

New York... is a city of geometric heights, a petrified desert of grids and lattices, an inferno of greenish abstraction under a flat sky, a real Metropolis from which man is absent by his very accumulation.

The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture.

The art of living has no history: it does not evolve: the pleasure which vanishes vanishes for good, there is no substitute for it. Other pleasures come, which replace nothing. No progress in pleasures, nothing but mutations.