The English Have Only Three Sauces -

Ale, Not Beer, In A Pewter Mug Was Comme Il Faut, The Only Thing For A Gentleman Of Letters, Worthy Of The Name, To Drink.

Whether We Are Describing A King, An Assassin, A Thief, An Honest Man, A Prostitute, A Nun, A Young Girl, Or A Stallholder In A Market, It Is Always Ourselves That We Are Describing.

I Have Coveted Everything And Taken Pleasure In Nothing

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.

Our Memory Is A More Perfect World Than The Universe: It Gives Back Life To Those Who No Longer Exist.