Trotsky rises to give me his hand, then sits at his desk, gently allowing his regard to light on my person.

If each one of us could make just one other happy, the whole world would know happiness.

Trotsky rises to give me his hand, then sits at his desk, gently allowing his regard to light on my person.

I have always tried to write in a simple way, using down-to-earth and not abstract words.

Madame....gloatingly savored her words as earlier she had savored her pig's trotter.

And Boucard desisted, probably because like everyone else he was deeply impressed by this man who had laid all ghosts, who had lost all shadows, and who stared you in the eyes with cold serenity.

I have made love to ten thousand women.