I find it [science] analytical, pretentious and superficial-largely because it does not address itself to dreams, chance, laughter, feelings, or paradox-in other words,-all the things I love the most.
I can only wait for the final amnesia, the one that can erase an entire life.
Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing.
Frankly, despite my horror of the press, I'd love to rise from the grave every ten years or so and go buy a few newspapers.
Tobacco and alcohol, delicious fathers of abiding friendships and fertile reveries.
I'm still an atheist, thank God.
The bar... is an exercise in solitude. Above all else, it must be quiet, dark, very comfortable-and, contrary to modern mores, no music of any kind, no matter how faint. In sum, there should be no more than a dozen tables, and a client that doesn't like to talk.
Thank God I'm an atheist.
I am an atheist, thanks be to God.
If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul.
Luis Bunuel's two semishort surrealist hand grenades (cowritten in varying degrees with Salvador Dali) make a double bill that can restore your faith in the subversions of youth. Pure Spanish-Parisian piss and vinegar.
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