Scoundrels [...] simply don't die. The ones who die are always the gentle, sweet, and beautiful people. [...] Scoundrels live a long time. The beautiful die young.

What uneasiness lies in being loved.

For someone like myself in whom the ability to trust others is so cracked and broken that I am wretchedly timid and am forever trying to read the expression on people's faces.

The weak fear happiness itself. They can harm themselves on cotton wool. Sometimes they are wounded even by happiness

A true artist is an ugly man.

Now even if I die, no one will be so grieved as to do himself bodily harm.

I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.

But happiness is being able to hope, however faintly, for happiness. So, at least, we must believe if we are to live in the world of today.

Victims. Victims of a transitional period of morality. That is what we both certainly are.

Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

Addiction is perhaps a sickness of the spirit.

Beauty has its own vices.

Pleasure and freedom from pain, are the only things desirable as ends.

The shock, the power of an ordinary life. It is a thing you could not invent with banks of computers in a dust-free room.

Gain confidence and you banish fear.

I'm a performer. I've tried everything there is.

Dont try to excuse yourself by saying you're doing it for someone else's sake. - Break

A god could hardly love and be wise.

Ketchup left overnight on dinner plates has a longer half-life than radioactive waste.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.