No medicine cures what happiness cannot.

It is a triumph of life that old people lose their memories of inessential things.

and realized that death was not only a permanent probability, as he had always believed, but an immediate reality.

For a week I did not take off my mechanic's coverall day or night I did not bathe or shave or brush my teeth because love taught me too late that you groom yourself for someone you dress and perfume yourself for someone and I'd never had anyone to do that for.

The war is in the mountains,” he said. “For as long as I can remember, they have killed us in the cities with decrees, not with bullets.

Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love.

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