Cold. Healthier Than Heat.

The Writer Must Wade Into Life As Into The Sea, But Only Up To The Navel.

Maybe Happiness Too Is A Metaphor Invented On A Day Of Boredom

Everything Is There: The Love Of Art.

Doesn't It Seem To You," Asked Madame Bovary, "that The Mind Moves More Freely In The Presence Of That Boundless Expanse, That The Sight Of It Elevates The Soul And Gives Rise To Thoughts Of The Infinite And The Ideal?

The Hearts Of Women Are Like Those Little Pieces Of Furniture With Secret Hiding - Places, Full Of Drawers Fitted Into Each Other; You Go A Lot Of Trouble, Break Your Nails, And In The Bottom Find Some Withered Flower, A Few Grains Of Dust - Or Emptiness!