Charles: I want to write a short story wherein you’re a vampire, but I fear it’s been done.
Two friends, preparing for bad news.
Charles: I have disturbing news Cecily. Sit down if you aren’t already seated. Or sprawl out on an ottoman or something.
Cecily: I am sprawled. And I’m in the best place for bad news. I’m at the Plaza.
Charles, on hedonism.
Charles: Apparently your sense of smell and taste become dull with age. If that isn’t a ringing endorsement for unbridled hedonism, I don’t know what is.
Charles, to Cecily.
Charles: Am I your one “straighty-180” friend, or do you have a retinue of people that don’t exactly comprehend what you are?
Charles, on money.
Charles: I saw my psychiatrist. Didn’t help. Was more exhausting than anything. Nine cocktails would be a far better use of my money.
Arnaud, on pandas.
Arnaud: Pandas are always right. They are wisdom made flesh. Consequently, they are an endangered species. Logical.
Harald, on delightfulness.
Harald: It sounds as if he’s important to you, at least at the moment, yet you describe him as ‘delightful’, which hardly amounts to an impassioned declaration.
Cecily, on Fashion Week.
Cecily: I am knitted together tonight by malaise and luxury, in an old hotel room in Saint Germain, gifted to me by a client because it is Fashion Week, and this is how fashion people represent their gratitude. It is well received — I love luxury.
Rahoul, on gender.
Rahoul: You can be friends with women, but in the end, you can’t live with only cats.
Charles, on smoking.
Charles: I only like mini cigars. I think it adds to my character. Petit cigars, petit bourgeois.
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