One could be happy not only without love, but despite it.

Hate and love are reciprocal passions.

It was, at last, real life, with my heart safe and condemned to die of happy love in the joyful agony of any day after my hundredth birthday.

Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love.

My most important problem was destroying the lines of demarcation that separate what seems real from what seems fantastic.

Age isn't how old you are but how old you feel.

I became aware that the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.