It was futile to attack with reason the stout wall of irrational feelings that, as is known, is the stuff of which the female mind is made.

When the heart speaks, the mind finds it indecent to object.

The novel is not the author's confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become

Remembering our past, carrying it around with us always, may be the necessary requirement for maintaining, as they say, the wholeness of the self. To ensure that the self doesn’t shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends. They are our mirror; our memory; we ask nothing of them but that they polish the mirror from time to time so we can look at ourselves in it.

Two people in love, alone, isolated from the world, that's beautiful.

Attaching love to sex is one of the most bizarre ideas the Creator ever had.

Happiness is the longing for repetition.