The soul is healed by being with children.

I drink because I wish to multiply my sufferings.

After all, bluff and real emotion exist so easily side by side.

A man who lies to himself, and believes his own lies, becomes unable to recognize truth, either in himself or in anyone else, and he ends up losing respect for himself and for others.

In the realist, faith is not born from miracles, but miracles from faith.

A widow, the mother of a family, and from her heart she produces chords to which my whole being responds.

My soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly, swallows me whole.