In her final years she would still recall the trip that, with the perverse lucidity of nostalgia, became more and more recent in her memory.

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

Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life.

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

One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship!

we had made love without love, half-dressed most of the time and always in the dark so we could imagine ourselves as better than we were.

She knew that he loved her above all else, more than anything in the world, but only for his own sake.