I thought I am kissing pain and pain belongs to You as happiness never does. I love You in Your pain. I could almost taste metal and salt in the skin, and I thought, How good you are. You might have killed us with happiness, but You let us be with You in pain.

It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death: I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.

He was like a child with haemophilia: every contact drew blood.

When he was young, he had thought love had something to do with understanding, but with age he knew that no human being understood another. Love was the wish to understand, and presently with constant failure the wish died, and love died too perhaps or changed into this painful affection, loyalty, pity.

The hands of the guilty don't necessarily tremble; only in stories does a dropped glass betray agitation. Tension is more often shown in the studied action.

For an artist to think in terms of success is like a priest trying to think in terms of success.

Insecurity twists meanings and poisons trust. In a closely beleaguered city every sentry is a potential traitor.