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.

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

And again, as always, after so many years we were still in the same place we always were.

Life is but a continual succession of opportunities for surviving.

Love does not die, when someone gets old, people get old, because they can not love anymore.

It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.

They looked like two children," she told me. And that thought frightened her, because she'd always felt that only children are capable of everything.