Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging themselves with a great display of frenzy into an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine of the abyss: It's four o clock. At five I have my abyss.

No one asked you to be happy. Get to work.

I love my past, I love my present. I am not ashamed of what I have had, and I am not sad because I no longer have it.

Our perfect companions never have fewer than four feet.

In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.

You do not notice changes in what is always before you.

I want nothing from love, in short, but love.