It was the last that remained of a past whose annihilation had not taken place because it was still in a process of annihilation, consuming itself from within, ending at every moment but never ending its ending.

A lie is more comfortable than doubt, more useful than love, more lasting than truth.

There's no greater misfortune than dying alone.

It was also her nature that caused her letters to avoid emotional pitfalls and confine themselves to relating the events of her daily life in the utilitarian style of a ship's log. In reality they were distracted letters, intended to keep the coals alive without putting her hand in the fire, while Florentino Ariza burned himself alive in every line.

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

The interpretation of our reality through patterns not our own, serves only to make us ever more unknown, ever less free, ever more solitary.

Ah, me, if this is love, then how it torments.