There is no pain compared to that of loving a woman who makes her body accessible to one and yet who is incapable of delivering her true self -- because she does not know where to find it.

You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.

A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.

The whole Mediterranean, the sculpture, the palm, the gold beads, the bearded heroes, the wine, the ideas, the ships, the moonlight, the winged gorgons, the bronze men, the philosophers - all of it seems to rise in the sour, pungent taste of these black olives between the teeth. A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?