Be happy. It's one way of being wise.
Writing only leads to more writing.
Hope costs nothing.
Music is love in search of a word.
By associating with the cat one only risks becoming richer.
Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.
There are no ordinary cats.
There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.
Real poverty is lack of books.
In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
How do you like them? like a pear, a lemon, a la Montgolfier, half an apple, or a cantaloupe? Go and choose, don't be embarrassed.
January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.
I am going away with him to an unknown country where I shall have no past and no name, and where I shall be born again with a new face and an untried heart.
Bulldogs are adorable, with faces like toads that have been sat on.
What a wonderful life I've had! I only wish I'd realized it sooner.
You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.
For to dream and then to return to reality only means that our qualms suffer a change of place and significance.
Total absence of humor renders life impossible.
By an image we hold on to our lost treasures, but it is the wrenching loss that forms the image, composes, binds the bouquet.
No temptation can ever be measured by the value of its object.
The faults of husbands are often caused by the excess virtues of their wives.
My true friends have always given me that supreme proof of devotion, a spontaneous aversion for the man I loved.
My cat does not talk as respectfully to me as I do to her.
That provisional tomb where the living exile sighs, weeps, fights and succumbs, and is born again, remembering nothing, with the day.