In human character, simplicity doesn't exist except among simpletons.

You are the only young man that I know of who ignores the fact that the future becomes the present, the present the past, and the past turns into everlasting regret if you don't plan for it.

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.

I gave up visiting my psychoanalyst because he was meddling too much in my private life.

Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going.

It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work in not only convenient but unavoidable.

What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it's curved like a road through mountains.