Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging themselves with a great display of frenzy into an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine of the abyss: ''It's four o clock. At five I have my abyss... ''.
Smokers, male and female, inject and excuse idleness in their lives every time they light a cigarette.
Is suffering so very serious? I have come to doubt it. It may be quite childish, a sort of undignified pastime / I'm referring to the kind of suffering a man inflicts on a woman or a woman on a man. It's extremely painful. I agree that it's hardly bearable. But I very much fear that this sort of pain deserves no consideration at all. It's no more worthy of respect than old age or illness.
There is no need to waste pity on young girls who are having their moments of disillusionment, for in another moment they will recover their illusion.
It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.
The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.
It is wise to apply the oil of refined politeness to the mechanism of friendship.
In the matter of furnishing, I find a certain absence of ugliness far worse than ugliness.
It's nothing to be born ugly. Sensibly, the ugly woman comes to terms with her ugliness and exploits it as a grace of nature. To become ugly means the beginning of a calamity, self-willed most of the time.