I refused to believe that love could take any other form than mine: I measured love by the extent of my jealousy, and by that standard of course she could not love me at all.

Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.

I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.

Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered.

We remember the details of our story, we do not invent them.

I couldn't help wondering, is my husband so unattractive that no woman has ever wanted him? Except me, of course. I must have wanted him, in a way, once, but I've forgotten why, and I was too young to know what I was choosing.

Death will come in any case, and there is a long afterwards if the priests are right and nothing to fear if they are wrong.