Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.

The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.

How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.