I always had understood that dying of love was mere poetic license.

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

He who awaits much can expect little.

She always had a headache, or it was too hot, always, or she pretended to be asleep, or she had her period again, her period, always her period. So much so that Dr. Urbino had dared to say in class, only for the relief of unburdening himself without confession, that after ten years of marriage women had their periods as often as threes times a week.

A true friend is the one who holds your hand and touches your heart.

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.

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