..he understood far more deeply than anyone else the loneliness that lurked beneath his jaunty mask.

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.

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

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

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

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.

It is unfortunate for the gods that, unlike us, they cannot commit suicide.