No One, But No One, Ever Behaves

I've Tried Very Hard And I've Never Found Any Resemblance Between The People I Know And The People In My Novels.

The Happiness Of Others Is Never Bearable For Very Long.

Marriage? It's Like Asparagus Eaten With Vinaigrette Or Hollandaise, A Matter Of Taste But Of No Importance.

I Did Not Find Him Absurd. I Saw He Was Kind, That He Was On The Verge Of Real Love. I Thought It Would Be Nice For Me To Be In Love With Him, Too.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.