Oh, youth is a wicked, cruel thing – eating miracles with its breakfast and not knowing they are not porridge.
Every man without passions has within him no principle of action, nor motive to act.
The only thing that matters is to have charm and expression. Then comes that horrible gnawing doubt of our own magnetism. Is it possible that, though we are not lovely, we are not irresistible either? That we will have to go through life belonging neither to the triumphantly beautiful nor to the triumphantly ugly?
What you possess is not what you jingle in the pockets of your memory, but the imaginings with which you fill the spaces of the future.
Passion is no respecter of persons. She hardly seems to select her victims.
To some people, the impossible is impossible. One fine day, they wake up in the morning knowing that they will never hold the moon in their hands, and with the certainty, perfect peace descends on them.
Irony is the hygiene of the mind.
Friendship is a difficult, dangerous job. It is also (though we rarely admit it) extremely exhausting.
What an uncertain thing, marriage – what an elusive thing, happiness!
A man who is available for lunch, has no wife, is interested in everything, and talks well is socially invaluable.