This is what it means to be alone: everyone is connected to everyone else, their bodies are a bright liquid life flowing around you, sharing a single heart that drives them to move together. If the shark comes they will all escape, and leave you to be eaten.
She is not a bulldog, only a woman pressed into the shape of a small jar, possibly attempting to live in there. It shows in the way she places a seashell on a windowsill, a red-painted chair in the corner: she is practiced in the art of creating a still life and taking up residence inside it.
I should like to write my books only for the dear person who lies awake reading in bed until the last page, then lets the open book fall gently on her face, to touch her smile or drink her tears.
I don’t hate much and I don’t love much. I’m a free man.
What we end up calling history is a kind of knife, slicing through time. a few people are hard enough to bend its edge. But most won’t even stand close to the blade.
Life proceeds, it enrages. The untouched ones spend their luck without a thought, believing they deserve it.
The most important part of a story is the part you don’t know.