In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats

For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths.

The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.

The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.

Only in chaos are we conceivable.

Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it's knowledge and questions.

We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.