An artisan without memories, whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes.

Death really did not matter to him but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear but of nostalgia.

He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.

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

Tell him,' the colonel said, smiling, 'that a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.

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

Over the years they both reached the same wise conclusion by different paths: it was not possible to live together in any other way, or love in any other way, and nothing in this world was more difficult than love.