Attraverso i libri ho appreso che i cieli non sono affatto umani e che un uomo che sa pensare, anche lui non è umano, non che non lo voglia, ma ciò contrasta col giusto modo di pensare.
No book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it's meant to make you jump out of your bed in your underwear and run and beat the author's brains out.
Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
He could not turn back the clock a second, nor could he ever push it forward a second, so that what happened had to happen.
I no longer felt alone and it gave me, not strength, but a sweet sensation of happiness, though I knew sadness was lurking not far off, because all being arises from nonbeing, and everything that exists derives from its opposite.
He was a gentle and sensitive soul, and therefore had a short temper, which is why he went straight after everything with an ax...
