I think just the opposite is true: love is an ideology for eternal militants, and the more misfortunes life tries to burden us with, the more essential love becomes.

I want the same one, the way she always is, without failures, without fights, without bad memories.

Four geological eras had to pass so that human beings would be able to outsing the birds and die for love.

She was lost in her longing to understand.

Everything that belonged to her husband made her weep again: his tasseled slippers, his pajamas under the pillow, the space of his absence in the dressing table mirror, his own odor on her skin. A vague thought made her shudder: "The people one loves should take all their things with them when they die.

All my life, I've been frightened at the moment I sit down to write.

An artisan without memories, whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes.