My tidiness, and my untidiness, are full of regret and remorse and complex feelings.

When I write stories I am like someone who is in her own country, walking along streets that she has known since she was a child, between walls and trees that are hers.

The course of our lives follows ancient and immutable laws, with an ancient, changeless rhythm. Dreams never come true, and the instant they are shattered, we realize how the greatest joys of life lie beyond the realm of reality. The instant they are shattered we are sick with longing for the days when they flamed within us. Our fate spends itself in this succession of hope and nostalgia.

As soon as we see our dreams betrayed we realize that the intensest joys of our life have nothing to do with reality, and we are consumed with regret for the time when they glowed within us. And in this succession of hopes and regrets our life slips by.

But that was the best time of my life, and only now that it has gone from me forever -- only now do I realize it.

But the English do not know what surprise is. No one ever turns his head to look at anyone else in the street.

Being moderate with oneself and generous with others; this is what is meant by having a just relationship with money, by being free as far as money is concerned.