A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of it's complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.
The one thing I regret is that I will never have time to read all the books I want to read.
curiosity is the beginning of wisdom.
Art must take reality by surprise. It takes those moments which are for us merely a moment, plus a moment, plus another moment, and arbitrarily transforms them into a special series of moments held together by a major emotion.
For this was the round of love: fear which leads on desire, tenderness and fury, and that brutal anguish which triumphantly follows pleasure.
I don't think there's any intrinsic difference between a lover and a husband. ... If I were cynical, I would say that a woman should have both a good husband and a lover. But I'm not cynical so I'll just say that a woman should have a lover who's a good husband and a husband who's a good lover, perhaps both.
Writing is just having a sheet of paper, a pen and not a shadow of an idea of what you are going to say.
The questions I would have liked to ask people were: ‘Are you in love? What are you reading?
It amused me to think that one can tell the truth when one is drunk and nobody will believe it.
Every little girl knows about love. It is only her capacity to suffer because of it that increases.
No one ever has time to examine himself honestly, and most people look no further than their neighbors' eyes, in which they may see their own reflection.
I think the best way to waste time is to try to save time.
I feel sorry for men. They have more problems than women, because they now have to compete with women.
Nothing brings on jealousy like laughter.
No one is more conventional than a woman who is falling out of love.
For me writing is a question of finding a certain rhythm. I compare it to the rhythms of jazz.
happiness has always seemed to me a great achievement.
You should celebrate the end of a love affair as they celebrate death in New Orleans, with songs, laughter, dancing and a lot of wine.
I recognize limitations in the sense that I've read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and Shakespeare . . . Aside from that I don't think of limiting myself.
The happiness of others is never bearable for very long.
It is healthier to see the good points of others than to analyze our own bad ones.
Looking for pleasure is the best way to ensure you won't find it.
He refused categorically all ideas of fidelity or serious commitments. He explained that they were arbitrary and sterile. From anyone else such views would have shocked me, but I knew that in his case they did not exclude tenderness and devotion - feelings which came all the more easily to him since he was determined that they should be transient.
I did not find him absurd. I saw he was kind, that he was on the verge of real love. I thought it would be nice for me to be in love with him, too.
Marriage? It's like asparagus eaten with vinaigrette or hollandaise, a matter of taste but of no importance.
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