Abstinence Is The Worst Form Of Perversion.

Night Was A Very Different Matter. It Was Dense, Thicker Than The Very Walls, And It Was Empty, So Black, So Immense That Within It You Could Brush Against Appalling Things And Feel Roaming And Prowling Around A Strange, Mysterious Horror.

Words Dazzle And Deceive Because They Are Mimed By The Face. But Black Words On A White Page Are The Soul Laid Bare.

Sometimes Our Thoughts Turn Back Toward A Corner In A Forest, Or The End Of A Bank, Or An Orchard Powdered With Flowers, Seen But A Single Time On Some Happy Day, Yet Remaining In Our Hearts And Leaving In Soul And Body An Unappeased Desire Which Is Not To Be Forgotten, A Feeling That We Have Just Rubbed Elbows With Happiness.

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

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.