And What Can Life Be Worth If

Is A Novel Anything But A Trap Set For A Hero?

I Feel A Frantic Desire To Free Myself. To Start All Over Again And In Another Way.

At The End Of True Love Is Death, And Only The Love That Ends In Death Is Love.

A Man Possessed With Peace Is Always Smiling

He Was Well Aware That Of The Two Of Three Thousand Times He Had Made Love (how Many Times Had He Made Love In His Life?) Only Two Or Three Were Really Essential And Unforgettable. The Rest Were Mere Echoes, Imitations, Repetitions, Or Reminiscences.