The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.
Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.
I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.
Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
There is the first satisfaction of arranging it on a bit of paper; after many, many false tries, false moves, finally you have the sentence you recognize as the one you are looking for.
She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.