The Finest Life Is Spent Creating Oneself,

Seeking Revenge: What A Lack Of Foresight.

There Are. Intangible Realities Which Float Near Us, Formless And Without Words; Realities Which No One Has Thought Out, And Which Are Excluded For Lack Of Interpreters.

Paris Has Always Seemed To Me To Be The Only City In Which One Can Live As One Sees Fit.

All Expression, All Art, Is An Indiscretion We Commit Against Ourselves. This Is Not An 'impoverishment' But An Increase In Wealth, For It Is In This Way That We Make The Short Hours Of Our Lives Live On Beyond Themselves.

I'm Fond Of Human Beings, But Only One At A Time.