When you are a child you are yourself and you know and see everything prophetically. And then suddenly something happens and you stop being yourself; you become what others force you to be. You lose your wisdom and your soul.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

I often want to cry. That is the only advantage women have over men — at least they can cry.

I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what's called loving as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.

No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us...a difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.

As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.