Don't you know no one can escape the power of creatures reaching out with breath alone?

Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
 In the cradle a child is screaming.
 An old man sits over his death, and anyone
 young enough talks to his love, breathes 
into her lips, looks into her eyes.

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.

For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.

No one has ever stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?

Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.

What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.