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.

Ah, me, if this is love, then how it torments.

Each man is master of his own death, and all that we can do when the time comes is to help him die without fear of pain.

I have learned that a man has the right and obligation to look down at another man, only when that man needs help to get up from the ground.

Taught him the only thing he had to learn about love: that nobody teaches life anything.

Morality, too, is a question of time.

He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in bundles ties with colored ribbons, and they were all unopened.