A paranoiac ... like a poet, is born, not made.
In the name of Hippocrates, doctors have invented the most exquisite form of torture ever known to man: survival.
If the devil were to offer me a resurgence of what is commonly called virility, I'd decline. "Just keep my liver and lungs in good working order," I'd reply, "so I can go on drinking and smoking!"
Fortunately, somewhere between chance and mystery lies imagination, the only thing that protects our freedom, despite the fact that people keep trying to reduce it or kill it off altogether.
If you were to ask me if I'd ever had the bad luck to miss my daily cocktail, I'd have to say that I doubt it; where certain things are concerned, I plan ahead.
Tobacco and alcohol, delicious fathers of abiding friendships and fertile reveries.
The decline of the aperitif may well be one of the most depressing phenomena of our time.
Frankly, despite my horror of the press, I'd love to rise from the grave every ten years or so and go buy a few newspapers.
I can only wait for the final amnesia, the one that can erase an entire life.
If someone were to prove to me—right this minute—that God, in all his luminousness, exists, it wouldn't change a single aspect of my behavior.