Men who care passionately for women attach themselves at least as much to the temple and to the accessories of the cult as to their goddess herself.

The mask, given time, comes to be the face itself

The landscape of my days appears to be composed, like mountainous regions, of varied materials heaped up pell-mell. There I see my nature, itself composite, made up of equal parts of instinct and training. Here and there protrude the granite peaks of the inevitable, but all about is rubble from the landslips of chance.

The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.

Books are not life, only its ashes.

I knew that good like bad becomes a routine, that the temporary tends to endure, that what is external permeates to the inside, and that the mask, given time, comes to be the face itself.

This city belongs to ghosts, to murderers, to sleepwalkers. Where are you, in what bed, in what dream?