“Oh, love is real enough; you will find it someday, but it has one archenemy - an…” — Jean Anouilh

Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

Life is very nice, but it lacks form. It's the aim of art to give it some.

I like reality. It tastes like bread.

Have you noticed that life, with murders and catastrophes and fabulous inheritances, happens almost exclusively in newspapers?