Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.

You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.

In love there are no vacations. No such thing. Love has to be lived fully with its boredom and all that.

What stops you killing yourself when you're intoxicated out of your mind is the thought that once you're dead you won't be able to drink any more.

Alcohol doesn't console, it doesn't fill up anyone's psychological gaps, all it replaces is the lack of God. It doesn't comfort man. On the contrary, it encourages him in his folly, it transports him to the supreme regions where he is master of his own destiny.

He wanted to pay her; he thought women ought to be paid for keeping men from dying or going out of their minds.

One must talk. That's how it is. One must.