For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood.

No matter what you do this year or in the next hundred, you will be dead forever.

I’ve remained a virgin for you.

Let me stay here," he said. "There was soap.

A falcon who chases a warlike crane can only hope for a life of pain.

Tell him,' the colonel said, smiling, 'that a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.

He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in bundles ties with colored ribbons, and they were all unopened.