There is a life and there is a death, and there are beauty and melancholy between.

No doubt our love was still there, but quite simply it was unusable, heavy to carry, inert inside of us, sterile as crime or condemnation. It was no longer anything except a patience with no future and a stubborn wait.

I know simply that the sky will last longer than I.

That must be wonderful; I have no idea of what it means.

And for all his life it would be kindness and love that made him cry, never pain or persecution, which on the contrary only reinforced his spirit and his resolution.

I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I cannot know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it.

If absolute truth belongs to anyone in this world, it certainly does not belong to the man or party that claims to possess it.