What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?
The conversation seemed just as boring and forgettable as details of American history around 1805, for example.
For neither life nor nature cares if justice is ever done or not.
Honesty, for me, is usually the worst policy imaginable.
I can't write if someone else is in the house, not even the cleaning woman.
I think people often try to find through sex things that are much easier to find in other ways.