“His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.”

And I’ll stay off Verlaine too; he was always chasing Rimbauds.

Genius can write on the back of old envelopes but mere talent requires the finest stationery available.

And I’ll stay off Verlaine too; he was always chasing Rimbauds.

That woman speaks eighteen languages, and can’t say ‘No’ in any of them.

Genius can write on the back of old envelopes but mere talent requires the finest stationery available.

And I’ll stay off Verlaine too; he was always chasing Rimbauds.

That woman speaks eighteen languages, and can’t say ‘No’ in any of them.

Of Orson Welles: It’s like meeting God without dying.

That woman speaks eighteen languages, and can’t say ‘No’ in any of them.

Of Orson Welles: It’s like meeting God without dying.

Of Orson Welles: It’s like meeting God without dying.

Oh, seek, my love, your newer way; I’ll not be left in sorrow. So long as I have yesterday, Go take your damned tomorrow!

There is entirely too much charm around, and something must be done to stop it.

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.

Ridicule may be a shield, but it is not a weapon.

If you wear a short enough skirt, the party will come to you.

I’m so despondent about everything. Everything I try goes totally wrong. There’s no escape from this hole here. I feel drained. So far, I still haven’t found a real purpose in life. Sometimes, I’m afraid to get out of bed in the morning. There’s nothing to get up for.

The other night I was lying in bed, looking up at the stars, and I wondered, ‘Where the hell is my roof?

Before you go to bed; thank god for you still have a bed.

When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.

I find I can get so much done between midnight and 4 a.m. Everything is quiet, no one is disturbing me, and if I go to bed then, I just lie awake thinking of ideas. They are very creative hours for me. One night a week I crash out, though.

The bed was the canvas, we were the art.

I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.