There Is Always Something Left To Love.

She Wanted To Be Herself Again, To Recover All That She Had Been Obliged To Give Up In Half A Century Of Servitude That Had Doubtless Made Her Happy But Which, Once Her Husband Was Dead, Did Not Leave Her Even The Vestiges Of Her Identity.

It Is Impossible To Explain. But What I Like Most Is To Eat.

It Was A Meditation On Life, Love, Old Age, Death: Ideas That Had Often Fluttered Around Her Head Like Nocturnal Birds But Dissolved Into A Trickle Of Feathers When She Tried To Catch Hold Of Them.

Most Fatal Diseases Had Their Own Specific Odor, But ... None Was As Specific As Old Age.

She Had Never Imagined That Curiosty Was One Of The Many Masks Of Love .