Bad weather doesn’t give you ideas about going to visit a flower garden.

What there will be, unfortunately, on the one side is silence, and on the other, evidence of bitterness, evidence of injustice, lack of gentleness, lack of pity. An anatomy of melancholy.

To have nobody is to have not even yourself. Somebody loving you provides a certificate of existence. When a person feels alone, he can’t exist without some small social fable.

Time changes everything, including the soul of a face.

All men and women go through the same fog.

Women always think you need a man, you need a father, as if they’d be the slightest use. Men are a dead weight, they’re clumsy and maladjusted.

Someday someone should make a study of the silence that falls inside a car when you’re returning home after having flaunted your well-being, partly to edify the company, partly to deceive yourself. It’s a silence that tolerates no sound, not even the radio, for who in that mute war of opposition would dare to turn it on?

After I write, I have nothing to say. The commentary afterwards is superfluous. I write. And that’s enough.

What we like about women is sensuality, wildness, hormones. Women who make a song and dance about their intuition.

Courtesy is a waste of time; it weakens you and undermines you.