I have heard unsavory rumors about you and the umbrella-maker's daughter

17. Butterfly A butterfly fluttered its wings in a wind thick with the smell of seaweed. His dry lips felt the touch of the butterfly for the briefest instant, yet the wisp of wing dust still shone on his lips years later.

Yes -- or rather, it's not so much that I want to die as that I'm tired of living.

A man sometimes devotes his life to a desire which he is not sure will ever be fulfilled. Those who laugh at this folly are, after all, no more than mere spectators of life.

I have no conscience at all -- least of all an artistic conscience. All I have is nerves.

I could have sworn that the man's eyes were no longer watching his daughter dying in agony, that instead the gorgeous colors of flames and the sight of a woman suffering in them were giving him joy beyond measure.

Isn't there someone kind enough to come strangle me in my sleep?