What matters to us, the judgment of men? What have we to doubt, since we are pure before life?

I detest heavy perfume and shrill voices.

There are fewer ways of making love than they say, and more than one believes.

I have no right to beauty. I had been condemned to masculine ugliness.

I am at the age when a maiden gives her hand to the man whom her weakness searches and dreads, and I have not chosen a companion for the road.

She embodies all the melancholy of autumn. She has learned to cherish with mournful tenderness a past she dares not remember.

I’m infected with the romantic fever. It began in my teens when I read Baudelaire in secret.

I’ll adore you, as a drowned person does the sea.

You yourself are the bizarre flower of some unknown dream.

I adore fairy stories. And I still have the wistful spirit of a child that listens wide-eyed to the marvellous tales told over and over during long winter evenings.