Love Is A Sacred Silence.

Clocks And Calendars Do Not Exist To Remind Us Of The Time We've Forgotten But To Regulate Our Relations With Others And Indeed All Of Society, And This Is How We Use Them.

The Knowledge That She Could Learn To Love A Man Had Always Meant More To Her Than Loving Him Effortlessly, More Even Than Falling In Love, And That Was Why She Now Felt That She Was On The Threshold Of A New Life, A Happiness Bound To Endure For A Very Long Time.

A Writer Is Someone Who Spends Years Patiently Trying To Discover The Second Being Inside Him, And The World That Makes Him Who He Is: When I Speak Of Writing, What Comes First To My Mind Is Not A Novel, A Poem, Or Literary Tradition, It Is A Person Who Shuts Himself Up In A Room, Sits Down At A Table, And Alone, Turns Inward; Amid Its Shadows, He Builds A New World With Words.

As Always After Drinking Too Much, I Felt Like My Own Ghost Trying To Take It's First Solo Walk Outside The Body.

Time Had Not Faded My Memories (as I Had Prayed To God It Might), Nor Had It Healed My Wounds As It Is Said Always To Do. I Began Each Day With The Hope That The Next Day Would Be Better, My Recollections A Little Less Pointed, But I Would Awake To The Same Pain, As If A Black Lamp Were Burning Eternally Inside Me, Radiating Darkness.