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.

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.

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.

The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.

Never touch a butterfly's wing with your finger.

The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time.