Love was something different. Love was pure delight, a fountain of emotions, sensual delights, and enjoying spending time together.

When people got old, why did they always develop a passion for scrabbling in the earth? Were they trying to get used to it?

This is the inevitable consequence of a popular movie: you become the guy who wrote "the book that inspired the movie." Frankly speaking, I find it a bit insulting.

The hardest thing of all is when pain is hidden behind a mask of calm.

That's how myths are born. Out of our carelessness, out of our tattered nerves, out of jokes that go wrong and flashy gestures.

And the simple people are trash. A herd of sheep that are good for shearing, but sometimes it's more profitable to slaughter them.

For every prophet there are a thousand interpreters to distort the essence of the religion, to replace the bright flame with the heat of the inquisitors' pyres.