I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise--a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames--but still a paradise.

I see again my schoolroom in Vyra, the blue roses of the wallpaper, the open window.… Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.

I think she always nursed a small mad hope.

All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.

Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.