As soon as I turned the key I saw it hanging, the color of fire and sunset. the colour of flamboyant flowers. ‘If you are buried under a flamboyant tree, ‘ I said, ‘your soul is lifted up when it flowers. Everyone wants that.’ She shook her head but she did not move or touch me.

very few people change after well say seven or seventeen. Not really. They get more this or more that and of course look a bit different. But inside they are the same.

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.

Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.

Something in her brain that still remained calm told her that she was doing a very foolish thing indeed.

If she says goodbye perhaps adieu. Adieu - like those old time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I'll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She's mad but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me.