When they finally did dare it, at first with stolen glances and then candid ones, they had to smile. They were uncommonly proud. For the first time they had done something out of Love.

And finally - he was neither able nor willing to prevent it - the self-loathing dammed up inside him spilled over and gushed out, gushed out of glaring eyes that grew ever grimmer, angrier, beneath the rim of his cap, flooding the outside world as perfect, vulgar hate.

Not a visible enthusiasm but a hidden one, an excitement burning with a cold flame.

It was good, really, that this external world still existed, if only as a place of refuge.

How quickly the apparently solidly laid foundation of one's existence could crumble.

She was indeed a girl of exquisite beauty. She was one of those languid women made of dark honey smooth and sweet and terribly sticky.

...he came to the conclusion that you cannot depend on people, and that you can live in peace only if you keep them at arm's length.