Books hold no passports. There's only one true literary tradition: the human.

It’s a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

That's what happens when people reach old age; nobody remembers they've been bastards too.

You women listen more to your heart and less to all the nonsense. That's why you live longer.

I wondered what on earth she saw in me that could make her want to befriend me, other than a pale reflection of herself, an echo of solitude and loss. In my ..reveries, we were always two fugitives riding on the spine of a book, eager to escape into worlds of fiction and second hand dreams

Time curses all, I thought, except the truth.

We exist as long as somebody remembers us.