Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same.

I sell dreams, small comforts, sweet harmless temptations to bring down a multitude of saints crashing among the hazels and nougatines

All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.

I'm not sure I believe in the whole 'ghost-afterlife' thing, but I think places are marked by people who have been there.

I'm incapable of hiding my feelings when I'm around someone I don't like.

The dead know everything but they don't give a damn.

I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.