There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.

Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.

Discussion in class, which means letting twenty young blockheads and two cocky neurotics discuss something that neither their teacher nor they know.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.