our real fears are the sounds of footsteps walking in the corridors of our minds, and the anxieties, the phantom floatings, they create.

Here is a hall without exit, a tunnel without end.

Mick Jagger moves like a parody between a majorette girl and Fred Astaire.

The enemy was anyone who was someone he wanted to be or who had anything he wanted to have.

Let's take everything just as it is.

And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled.

Maybe the older you grow and the less easy it is to put thought into action, maybe that’s why it gets all locked up in your head and becomes a burden.