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

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.

You have to have spent the night at sea, sitting in a life raft and looking at your watch, to know that the night is immeasurably longer than the day.

The woman let out an expansive laugh that resounded through the house like a spray of broken glass.

The anxiety of falling in love could not find repose except in bed.

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

Crazy people are not crazy if one accepts their reasoning.