None of us are what we once were.

I can't die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwords I'll have a whole lifetime in which to die.

I prefer you like this, when you're in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.

To truly hate is an art one learns with time.

But in good time you'll see that sometimes what matters isn't what one gives but what one gives up.

...until that moment I had not understood that this was a story about lonely people, about absence and loss, and that that was why I had taken refuge in it until it became confused with my own life, like someone who has escaped into the pages of a novel because those whom he needs to love seem nothing more than ghosts inhabiting the mind of a stranger.

Resentment slowly poisoned my blood and I laughed at myself and my absurd hopes.