his examination revealed that he had no fever, no pain anywhere, and that his only concrete feeling was an urgent desire to die. All that was needed was shrewd questioning...to conclude once again that the symptoms of love were the same as those of cholera.

he dared to explore her withered neck w/his fingertips…her hips w/their decaying bones, her thighs with their aging veins.

He was weary of the uncertainty of the vicious circle of that eternal war that always found him in the same place, but always older, wearier, even more in the position of not knowing why, or how, or even when.

She had the revelation one Sunday that while the other instruments played for everyone the violen played for her alone .

Life is but a continual succession of opportunities for surviving.

Always tell what you feel. Do what you think.

If men gave birth, they'd be less inconsiderate.