One ought to have the right to have a secret and to spring it as a surprise. But if you live inside a family you have neither.

It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

They were always doing something. Quietly, without interruption, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred-and-one small things that made up their world.

Dogs are mute and obedient, but they have watched us and know us and can smell how pitiful we are.

Someone who eats pancakes and jam can't be so awfully dangerous. You can talk to him.

An island can be dreadful for someone from outside. Everything is complete, and everyone has his obstinate, sure and self-sufficient place. Within their shores, everything functions according to rituals that are as hard as rock from repetition, and at the same time they amble through their days as whimsically and casually as if the world ended at the horizon.

It was a particularly good evening to begin a book.