I know it's not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction of costliness of their finery. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don't know where. I only know it isn't where women think.

We, her children, are heroic, dersperate.

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

It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

In heterosexual love there's no solution. Man and woman are irreconcilable, and it's the doomed attempt to do the impossible, repeated in each new affair, that lends heterosexual love its grandeur.

What she said was always strange. It had happened long ago. It seemed insignificant. And yet it was something you remembered forever. The words as well as the story. The voice as much as the words.

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