Sad sex is when you feel you’re losing all touch with her, and she with you, but this is the way of telling one another that the connection is still there, somehow; that neither of you is giving up on...
Perhaps this was one of the tragedies life plots for us: it is our destiny to become in old age what in youth we would have most despised.
If Tony hadn't been fearful, hadn't counted on the approval of others for his own self-approval . . . and so on, through a succession of hypotheticals leading to the final one: so, for instance, if To...
Most of us have only one story to tell. I don't mean that only one thing happens to us in our lives: there are countless events, which we turn into countless stories. But there's only one that matters...
Io so una cosa per certo: che un tempo oggettivo esiste, ma che esiste anche quello soggettivo, quello che si porta sull’interno polso, proprio accanto alle pulsazioni cardiache. E questo tempo person...
He had a better mind and a more rigorous temperament than me; he thought logically, and then acted on the conclusion of logical thought. Whereas most of us, I suspect, do the opposite: we make an inst...
Though sometimes, first love cauterises the heart, and all any searcher will find thereafter is scar tissue.
Pride makes us long for a solution to things – a solution, a purpose, a final cause; but the better telescopes become, the more stars appear.
Of course, opera has plot – and I was already anticipating all those unknown stories I was about to discover – but its main function is to deliver the characters as swiftly as possible to the point wh...
Is there anything more plausible than a second hand?
In my terms, I settled for the realities of life, and submitted to its necessities: if this, then that, and so the years passed. In Adrian's terms, I gave up on life, gave up on examining it, took it...
Everything you invent is true: you can be sure of that. Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.
Tragedies in hindsight look like farces.
This last isn't something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed.
Still, I'm not curious enough to find out. At this stage I prefer not to know.
Me and my books, in the same apartment: like a gherkin in its vinegar.
One weekend in the vacation, I was invited to meet her family. They lived in Kent, out on the Orpington line, in one of those suburbs which had stopped concreting over nature at the very last minute,...
Memories of childhood were the dreams that stayed with you after you woke.
Every love story is a potential grief story.
We live, we die, we are remembered, we are forgotten.