This cures everything except stupidity, which is an epidemic on the rise.

I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time.

As it unfolded, the structure of the story began to remind me of one of those Russian dolls that contain innumerable ever-smaller dolls within. Step by step the narrative split into a thousand stories, as if it had entered a gallery of mirrors, its identity fragmented into endless reflections.

One mustn't dream of one's future; one must earn it.

It might have been that notion, or just chance, or its more flamboyant relative, destiny.

She was seventeen, her entire life shining on her lips.

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