There is no such thing as static happiness. Happiness is a mixed thing, a thing compounded of sacrifices, and losses, and betrayals.

It's a man's world, they say; but in its daily textures it is a world created by and for women.

Days, pale slices between nights, they blend, not exactly alike, transparencies so lightly tinted that only stacked all together do they darken to a fatal shade.

One of the cool, chaste countries - Canada or Sweden.

Hoping to fashion a mirror, the lover doth polish the face of his beloved until he produces a skull.

A narrative is like a room on whose walls a number of false doors have been painted; while within the narrative, we have many apparent choices of exit, but when the author leads us to one particular door, we know it is the right one because it opens.

Fraud makes the world go round.