One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.
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- You must not pity me because my sixtieth year finds me still astonished. To be astonished is one of the surest ways of not growing old too quickly.
- Can it be that chance has made me one of those women so immersed in one man that, whether they are barren or not, they carry with them to the grave the shriveled innocence of an old maid?
- 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.
- January, month of empty pockets! Let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer’s forehead.
- Smokers, male and female, inject and excuse idleness in their lives every time they light a cigarette.
- As for an authentic villain, the real thing, the absolute, the artist, one rarely meets him even once in a lifetime. The ordinary bad hat is always in part a decent fellow.