The loneliest ebb of my life came on that Christmas eve, only one day after my arrival in New York. The abyss of loneliness. I ate a solitary dinner in a small cafe, and the very food tasted bitter with my unshed tears. One doesn't dare cry in America. It is unmanly here.

Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen. I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.

To generalize on women is dangerous. To specialize on them is infinitely worse.