She would defend herself, saying that love, no matter what else it might be, was a natural talent. She would say: You are either born knowing how, or you never know.

Thinking that it would console him, she took a piece of charcoal and erased the innumerable loves that he still owed her for, and she voluntarily brought up her own most solitary sadnesses so as not to leave him alone in his weeping.

The more transparent the writing, the more visible the poetry.

I think just the opposite is true: love is an ideology for eternal militants, and the more misfortunes life tries to burden us with, the more essential love becomes.

The problem in public life is learning to overcome terror; the problem in married life is learning to overcome boredom.

That's maybe the reason he does so many things so that he will not have to think .

Justice limps along, but gets there all the same.