And I come to realise that all my small todays, the way I act, will lead into my tomorrows.

I learnt too late that what is most important to us is always most precious at the moment it occurs, and it is precious in its absolute immediacy and not as some vague confirmation of future directions; since the only certain fact, aside from death, is the flimsiness of everything.

You're beautiful, but you're somewhere else. That's okay. I can handle that. But we won't continue as friends, not just now. I like you as a lover, not a friend.

Everything comes to nothing in the end, I suppose. Or at least, nothing happens exactly the way we imagine it.

When you think you are in love, you don't want to know about the things that could end it.

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.

For the Tintin books were my emotional universe. To read them felt quite simply like being loved: in advance and by an entire world of pure possibility, my future. But to write to the author was to reach out for the lover. Even today, the power of reading one remains visceral: each book acts as a form of transportation, not just to the emotional landscape of this first literary love affair but to very specific memories.