Book: The night in Lisbon. Page 4

The most wonderful city is one where people are happy.

- Have you had many women in France?
No more than than necessary.

In love do I ask too much, but when you start to do the same to get to the bottom of the answers - goes fast.

There are always two truths: one rush forward, headlong and the other similar to the careful progress, first of all, when you think about yourself.

We put up with arrogant words in politics, but not in feelings. Unfortunately. If reconciled, would be better.

If we think that there are octopi, they should be. We can't vooruit yourself what in the world.

In the light of the sun in Lisbon, there is something naïve and theatrical, captivating and magical. But at night he turns into a vague tale of a city that all its terraces and the lights down to the sea, like a festively dressed woman, leaning towards her beloved, drowning in the darkness.

National revival, which they screamed like a stone. When it rises from the ground, from beneath him, crawling reptiles. To hide their abomination, they use big words.

The feeling of danger sharpens your perception of life. But only as long as the danger looms somewhere on the horizon.

- What else do we have left? - I asked.
Apples on trees, the Golden October and our dreams, ' she replied.

And you - you're my heart.

Our memory is not a casket made of ivory soaked in a dust Museum. This creature that lives, eats, and digests. It devours itself and, like the legendary Sphinx, so we could live, so it is not destroyed ourselves.

And our memory in General is lying, giving the opportunity to survive, to try to mitigate the unbearable, covering it a touch of forgetfulness.

When a place to stay, when you can't have shelter, when all the time rushing on. The existence of the immigrant. The Genesis of Indian dervish. The Genesis of modern man. And, you know, immigrants are much more than you think. These include sometimes even those who never left her corner.