I had long since lost any illusion of being loved for who I was and now accepted, with clean conscience, flowers, flattery, and money that fed my ego and my false identity.

The dance is a poem of which each movement is a world.

Death is nothing, nor life either, for that matter. To die, to sleep, to pass into nothingness, what does it matter? Everything is an illusion.

I have encountered in this world riff-raff and good people. I lose. I win. I defend myself when I am attacked. I take when someone has taken from me. But I beg you to believe me; I have never done an act of espionage against France. Never. Never.

My dance is a sacred poem in which each movement is a word and whose every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced, for I am the temple.

Everything is an illusion.

I was not content at home. . . I wanted to live like a colorful butterfly in the sun.

He's used to life in the fast lane, travels all over the world, already risks his life racing at over 300km/h and seems to be handy with a gun,

It's not just a matter of going through Heat and chucking in anyone. You have to have a pretty one, a funny one, a thick one and a mad one,

I am a woman who enjoys herself very much; sometimes I lose, sometimes I win.