I have loved to the point of madness, that which is called madness, that which to me is the only sensible way to love.

No woman wants a dress that another has tossed off, but in men they aren't so choosy.

It seems to me that there are two kinds of trickery: the "fronts" people assume before one another's eyes, and the "front" a writer puts on the face of reality.

There are moments when you feel trapped, ill at ease. A year later the same feeling can turn out to be the theme of a book.

Love lasts about seven years. That's how long it takes for the cells of the body to totally replace themselves.

Writing is a question of finding a certain rhythm. I compare it to the rhythms of jazz. Much of the time life is a sort of rhythmic progression of three characters. If one tells oneself that life is like that, one feels it less arbitrary.

Jazz music is an intensified feeling of nonchalance.