Even when the winds of misfortune blow, amazing things can still happen.

but he only found her in the image that saturated his private and terrible solitude.

There is always something left to love.

Then he knew that they had rounded the cape of good hope, and he took her large, soft hand again and covered it with forlorn little kisses, first the hard metacarpus, the long, discerning fingers, the diaphanous nails, and then the hieroglyphics of her destiny on her perspiring palm.

a process of aging had taken place in him that was so rapid and critical that soon he was being treated as one of those useless great-grandfathers who wander about the bedroom like shades, dragging their feet, remembering better times aloud, and whom no one bother about or remembers really until the morning they find them dead in their bed.

Make no mistake: peaceful madmen are ahead of the future.

He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.