If people and their manner of living were alike everywhere, there would not be much point in moving from one place to another.

One never took the time to savour the details; one said: another day, but always with the hidden knowledge that each day was unique and fatal, that there never would be a return, another time.

How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.

If people and their manner of living were alike everywhere, there would not be much point in moving from one place to another.

The only thing that makes life worth living is the possibility of experiencing now and then a perfect moment. And perhaps even more than that, it's having the ability to recall such moments in their totality, to contemplate them like jewels.

That was what he wanted, to be baked dry and hard, to feel the vaporous worries evaporating one by one, to know finally that all the damp little doubts and hesitations that covered the floor of his being were curling up and expiring in the great furnace-blast of the sun.

Fiction should always steer clear of political considerations.