Except for the sound of the rain, on the road, on the roofs, on the umbrella, there was absolute silence: only the dying moan of the sirens continued for a moment or two to vibrate within the ear. It seemed to Scobie later that this was the ultimate border he had reached in happiness: being in darkness, alone, with the rain falling, without love or pity.

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.

I had never known her before and I had never loved her so much. The more we know the more we love, I thought.

A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.

What happens if you drop all the things that make you I?

We can love with our minds, but can we love only with our minds? Love extends itself all the time, so that we can love even with our senseless nails: we love even with our clothes, so that a sleeve can feel a sleeve.

Champagne, if you are seeking the truth, is better than a lie detector. It encourages a man to be expansive, even reckless, while lie detectors are only a challenge to tell lies successfully.