The rain would not have bothered Fernanda, after all, her whole life had been spent as if it were raining.

He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.

He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.

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.

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

Nobody teaches life anything.