Curious, how each one of us secretly carries his private cemetery around with him and watches it filling up with ever new graves. The last one to be our own.

I was growing tired of all the fussing and prevaricating, of the stolen hours and the secret rendez-vous; of the small indignities and broad discomfort that are part and parcel of adultery.

A man with money to pay for a meal can talk about hunger without demeaning himself. ... But for a man with no money hunger is a disgrace.

He who does not move with the times is a dead man

Perfection bores me, in art, in music; most of all, in people. Luckily, perfection is rare.

To me, writing is not a profession. You might as well call living a profession. Or having children. Anything you can't help doing.

when we are young our parents run our life; when we get older, our children do.