I must warn you that the books I like are not necessarily the ones I think are the best. I like them for various reasons not always easy to explain.

The world was reduced to the surface of her skin and her inner self was safe from all bitterness.

There was a house at the foot of the tower, close to the thunder of the waves breaking against the cliffs, where love was more intense because it seemed like a shipwreck.

It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia.

Her heart of compressed ash, which had resisted the most telling blows of daily reality without strain, fell apart with the first waves of nostalgia.

It is impossible to explain. But what I like most is to eat.

Each man is master of his own death, and all that we can do when the time comes is to help him die without fear of pain.