Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.

A fairy tale is the kind of story in which one king goes to another king to borrow a cup of sugar

I know that whenever a group of women are gathered together, the grandmother always makes a phantom appearance, hovering above them.

At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.

They were connoisseurs of boredom. They savoured the various bouquets of the subtly differentiated boredoms which rose from the long, wasted hours at the dead end of night.

For hours, for days, for years, she had wandered endlessly within herself but never met anybody, nobody.

Aeneas carried his aged father on his back from the ruins of Troy and so do we all, whether we like it or not, perhaps even if we have never known them.