The novel is not so much a literary genre, but a literary space, like a sea that is filled by many rivers.

We know that happiness is short-lived, that we fail to cherish it when it is within our grasp and value it only when it has vanished forever.

A stomach accustomed to hunger is satisfied with very little.

We say Fine, even though we may be dying, and this is commonly known as taking one's courage in both hands, a phenomenon that has only been observed in the human species.

Blessed be the night, which conceals and protects things fair and foul with the same indifferent mantle.

With the passage of time, as well as the social evolution and genetic exchange, we ended up putting our conscience in the color of our blood and the salt of our tears.

Americans have discovered fear.