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

For human words are like shadows, and shadows are incapable of explaining light and between shadow and light there is the opaque body from which words are born.

The best way to killing a rose is to force it open when it is still only the promise of a bud.

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.

There are times when it is best to be content with what one has, so as not to lose everything.

If I'm sincere today, what does it matter if I regret it tomorrow?

Yet human experience and the practice of communication have shown throughout the ages that definitions are an illusion, like having a speech defect and trying to say love but unable to get the word out, or, better, having a tongue in one's head but unable to feel love.