A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't even be worth reading.

“She moved nearer, leaned her shoulder against me — and we were one, and somethi…”

“I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themsel…”

“Her smile was a bite, and I was its target.”

“And happiness...Well, after all, desires torment us, don't they? And, clearly, …”