The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.

Whenever it poured like this, Max felt as if time was pausing. It was like a cease-fire during which you could stop whatever you were doing and just stand by a window for hours, watching the performance, an endless curtain of tears falling from heaven.

In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silence, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.

Wars have no memory, and nobody has the courage to understand them until there are no voices left to tell what happened.

Few things are more deceptive than memories.

People with a meagre soul always try to make others feel small too.

One loves truly only once in a lifetime, Julian, even if one isn’t aware of it.