The heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good.

Intrigued by that enigma, he dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her.

But that afternoon he asked himself, with his infinite capacity for illusion, if such pitiless indifference might not be a subterfuge for hiding the torments of love.

The interpretation of our reality through patterns not our own, serves only to make us ever more unknown, ever less free, ever more solitary.

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.

Nothing resembles a person as much as the way he dies.

A famous writer who wants to continue writing has to be constantly defending himself against fame.