Nobody is worth crying for, and those that are worth it will not make you cry.

The world was reduced to the surface of her skin and her inner self was safe from all bitterness.

She wanted to be herself again, to recover all that she had been obliged to give up in half a century of servitude that had doubtless made her happy but which, once her husband was dead, did not leave her even the vestiges of her identity.

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry. With both you are working with reality, a material just as hard as wood.

She asked him to come and see her that night. He agreed, in order to get away, knowing that he was incapable of going. But that night, in his burning bed, he understood that he had to go see her, even if he were not capable. He got dressed by feel, listening in the dark to his brother's calm breathing, the dry cough of his father in the next room, the asthma of the hens in the courtyard, the buzz of the mosquitoes, the beating of his heart, and the inordinate bustle of a world that he had not noticed until then, and he went out in the sleeping street.

I became aware that the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.

The spirit of her invincible heart guided her through the shadows.