Looking out over the courtyard at the dirty walls, he realized he had no idea whether it was hysteria or love.

All great novels, all true novels, are bisexual.

Remembering now all those farewells (fake farewells, worked-up farewells), Irena thinks: a person who messes up her goodbyes shouldn’t expect much from her re-unions.

The longing for order is at the same time a longing for death, because life is an incessant disruption of order.

When you sit face to face with someone who is pleasant, respectful, and polite, you have hard time reminding yourself that nothing he says is true/sincere.

Yes, it's crazy. Love is either crazy or it's nothing at all.

Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death.