There was some element of loneliness involved - so easy to be loved - so hard to love.
F.Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

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There was some element of loneliness involved - so easy to be loved - so hard to love.
F.Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

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As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes.
F.Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
The unknown yielded her up; Dick wished she had no background, that she was just a girl lost with no address save the night from which she had come.
F.Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
Gilberte était comme ces pays avec qui on n'ose pas faire d'alliance parce qu'ils changent trop souvent de gouvernement.
Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue (la fugitive)
Jamais je ne retrouverais cette chose divine, un être avec qui je pusse causer de tout, à qui je pusse me confier. Me confier? Mais d'autres êtres ne me montraient-ils pas plus de confiance qu'Albertine? Avec d'autres n'avais-je pas des causeries plus étendues? C'est que la confiance, la conversation, choses médiocres, qu'importe qu'elles soient plus ou moins imparfaites, si s'y mêle seulement l'amour qui seul est divin.
Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue (la fugitive)

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Et mon amour qui venait de reconnaître le seul ennemi par lequel il pût être vaincu, l'oubli, se mit à frémir comme un lion qui dans la cage où on l'a enfermé a aperçu tout d'un coup le serpent python qui le dévorera.
Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue (la fugitive)
Comment pourrait-il être difficile de se sacrifier à celle vers laquelle notre pensée est constamment tendue (celle que nous aimons), de lui sacrifier cet autre être auquel nous ne pensons jamais: nous-même? Aussi cette pensée de ma mort me parut par là, comme la notion de mon moi, singulière; elle ne me fut nullement désagréable.
Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue (la fugitive)
Les liens entre un être et nous n'existent que dans notre pensée. La mémoire en s'affaiblissant les relâche, et malgré l'illusion dont nous voudrions être dupes et dont par amour, par amitié, par politesse, par respect humain, par devoir, nous dupons les autres, nous existons seuls. L'homme est l'être qui ne peut sortir de soi, qui ne connaît les autres qu'en soi, et, en disant le contraire, ment. Et j'aurais eu si peur, si on avait été capable de le faire, qu'on m'ôta ce besoin d'elle, cet amour d'elle, que je me persuadais qu'il était précieux pour ma vie.
Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue (La fugitive)
In fact, if one has not the imagination to create characters, to knit plots, it does no good to jot down fragments of life and conversation, for alone they are disjointes and meaningless. It is only when these bits are woven into an artistic whole, with a frame of reference, that they become meaning-ful and worthy of more than a cursory glance. Therefore, think and work, think and work.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (Anchor Books, p.83)
I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (Anchor Books, p.9)

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"It seems to me more than ever that I am a victim of introspection. I have not the power to put myself in the place of other people, but must be continually burrowing inward, I shall never be the magnanimous creative person I wish to be. Yet I am hypnotized by the workings of the individual, alone, more so now that my working hours are not spent studying for myself, but dancing attendance to a family. [...] I am too busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is. But I must discipline myself. I must be imaginative and create plots, knit motives, probe dialogue - rather than merely trying to record descriptions and sensations. The latter is pointless, without purpose, unless it is later to be synthesized into a story. The latter is also a rather pronounced symptom of an oversensitive and unproductive ego.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (p.76,77, Anchor Books)
But I am now; and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of "I" that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter; how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratches on the paper... I... I... I... I... I... I.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (p.34, Anchor Books)
today I bought a raincoat - no, that was yesterday - yesterday I bought a raincoat with a frivolous pink lining that does good to my eyes because I have never ever had anything pink-colored, and it was much too expensive - I bought it with a month’s news office pay, and so I will not have any money to do anything more with because I am buying clothes because I love them and they are exactly right, if I pay enough. And I feel dry and a bit sick whenever I say “I’ll take it” and the smiling woman goes away with my money because she doesn’t know I really don’t have money at all at all. For three villanelles, I have a blue-and-white pin-striped cotton cord suit dress, a black silk date dress and a grey raincoat with a frivolous pink lining.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.
Il leur dit de ne jamais demander ce qui fut d'abord, les mots ou les choses, mais ce qui viendra ensuite. Je me sens vivant, cela seul importe.
Pierrot le fou, Jean-Luc Godard
Ce qui me rend triste c'est que la vie et le roman c'est différent. Je voudrais que ce soit pareil. Clair. Logique. Organisé.
Pierrot le fou, Jean-Luc Godard

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Moi je suis très sentimentale, c'est tout. Il faut être complètement con pour trouver ça mystérieux.
Pierrot le fou, Jean-Luc Godard
Elle me fait penser à la musique.
Pierrot le fou, Jean-Luc Godard