But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket
after all the work of the philosophers on his soul and the doctors on his body, what can we really say we know about a man? That he is, when all is said and done, just a passage for liquids and solids, a pipe of flesh.
Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.
The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?
I have done so many things in my life," she said to the mirror. "Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?
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