Never trust he who trusts everyone.

She wore an ivory-white dress and held the world in her eyes. I barely remember the priest's words or the faces of the guests, full of hope, who filled the church on that March morning. All that remains in my memory is the touch of her lips and, when I half opened my eyes, the secret oath I carried with me and would remember all the days of my life.

Write," he said. "I'll write to you as soon as I get there," answered Julian. "No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penelope.

A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.

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

Paris is the only city in the world where starving to death is still considered an art.

The most despicable humans are the ones who always feel virtuous and look down on the rest of the world.