And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.

Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.

There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.

I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

I have often noticed that after I had bestowed on the characters of my novels some treasured item of my past, it would pine away in the artificial world where I had so abruptly placed it.

The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.

We are most artistically caged.