A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love.

Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

The steward, according to custom, had stopped all the clocks. This, in the language of Narouz, said "Your stay with us is so brief, let us not be reminded of the flight of the hours."

I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.

Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

The appalling thing is the degree of charity women are capable of. You see it all the time... love lavished on absolute fools. Love's a charity ward, you know.

Whatever the heart desires, it purchases at the cost of soul