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

He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.

This was when I heard that the first symptom of old age is when you begin to resemble your father.

Then he knew that they had rounded the cape of good hope, and he took her large, soft hand again and covered it with forlorn little kisses, first the hard metacarpus, the long, discerning fingers, the diaphanous nails, and then the hieroglyphics of her destiny on her perspiring palm.

Never stop smiling not even when you're sad, someone might fall in love with your smile.

He who awaits much can expect little.

He would wake for no reason in the middle of the night, and the memory of the self-absorbed love was revealed to him for what it was: a pitfall of happiness that he despised and desired at the same time, but from which it was impossible to escape.