Perhaps the only misplaced curiosity is that which persists in trying to find out here, on this side of death, what lies beyond the grave.

You do not notice changes in what is always before you.

I love my past, I love my present. I am not ashamed of what I have had, and I am not sad because I no longer have it.

I am indebted to the cat for a particular kind of honorable deceit, for a greater control over myself, for a characteristic aversion to brutal sounds, and for the need to keep silent for long periods of time.

It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.

Never touch a butterfly's wing with your finger.

When she raises her eyelids it's as if she were taking off all her clothes.