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

Vous qui étiez si contente et si agitée, vous qui n'avez pas de tête, vous devenez cérébrale et triste.

Puis ce fut la ronde de l'amour: la peur qui donne la main au désir, la tendresse et la rage, et cette souffrance brutale qui suivait, triomphant, le plaisir.

De temps en temps, le souvenir du corps de Cyril, celui de certains instants, me vidait le coeur.

Et de plus, Cyril m'aimait ... cette pensée suffisait à mon euphorie.

He was in that stage of love–and of liquor–where one is completely taken up with oneself, and can get along very well without the other party.

What we love we may also despise.

Whenever he had spoken of love, she had spoken of love's brief duration. 'A year, or even two months from now, you won't love me anymore.' Josée was the only person he knew who had a real consciousness of time. Everyone else, including himself, was driven by some very fundamental instinct to try, or pretend, to believe that love could last and solitude be dispelled forever.

Nothing becomes some women more than the prick of ambition. Love, on the contrary, may make them very dull.