In Fact Living Is Dying.

The Bed Comprehends Our Whole Life, For We Were Born In It, We Live In It, And We Shall Die In It

The Public Is Composed Of Numerous Groups Whose Cry To Us Writers Is: 'comfort Me.' 'amuse Me.' 'touch My Sympathies.' 'make Me Sad.' 'make Me Dream.' 'make Me Laugh.' 'make Me Shiver.' 'make Me Weep.' 'make Me Think.'

She Was A Sweet Girl But Not Really Pretty, A Rough Sketch Of A Woman With A Little Of Everything In Her, One Of Those Silhouettes Which Artists Draw In Three Strokes On The Tablecloth In A Café After Dinner, Between A Glass Of Brandy And A Cigarette. Nature Sometimes Turns Out Creatures Like That.

We Live Always Under The Weight Of The Old And Odious Customs... Of Our Barbarous Ancestors.

You'll Find That My Coquetry Is Quite Impartial, Which Allows Me To Keep My Friends.