I sometimes think that the size of our happiness is inversely proportional to the size of our house.

Sometimes you break your heart in the right way, if you know what I mean.

Every virtuous act is inspired by a dark secret.

The touch was exactly what the touch of a lover's hand should be: familiar, yet exciting as a whispered promise. I felt an almost irresistible urge to take her hand and place it flat against my chest, near my heart. Maybe I should've done it. I know now that she would've laughed, if I'd done it, and she would've liked me for it. But strangers that we were then, we stood for five long seconds and held the stare, while all the parallel worlds, all the parallel lives that might've been, and never would be, whirled around us.

When the wish and the fear are exactly the same, we call the dream a nightmare.

Happiness is a myth. It was invented to make us buy new things.

Didier once told me, in a rambling, midnight dissertation, that a dream is the place where a wish and a fear meet. When the wish and the fear are exactly the same, he said, we call the dream a nightmare.