Life is only lived full-time by women with children.

He says he’s lonely, horribly lonely because of this love he feels for her. She says she’s lonely too. She doesn’t say why.

People come to Paris, to the capital, to give their lives a sense of belonging, of an almost mythical participation in society.

Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country.

In a thousand years time this day will have existed for a thousand years to the day. And the ignorance of the whole world about what they've said today will have a date too.

Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.

A prolonged silence ensues. The reason for the silence is our growing interest one for the other. No one is aware of it, no one yet; no one? am I quite sure?