Book: The guardian angel

You see, I believe that we usually know too much about others, it's exhausting. Know with whom they live, than to live with whom you sleep, think about me... And in my opinion, the less you know the better, do you think?

I was tormented by the thought: what kind of barrier so often stands between people and their innermost desires, their incredible pursuit of happiness? Maybe the obstacle grows the idea of happiness, the ideal that they themselves create, are incompatible with real life? Or blame time? Or lack of time? Or nurtured from childhood crack?

Young men, on whose lips the milk is not dried out, nothing to do in the arms of Mature ladies, which reeks of Scotch.

Don't like it when their tastes turn to philosophy, full of contempt for those who did not share them.

They feel well in their skin, while there is a man who caresses the skin, warms it with its warmth.

Human happiness is continually separates a wall: whether it's the illusion of hope, an excess of time or lack of it.

I must look like one of the heroines of Tennessee Williams, drunken and lonely, and for that I love them.

- You having fun?
- And you?
- When I hear your laughter. Too.

It is interesting to note that some people you downright force myself to cheat.

Maybe it is because I so hate what is usually called the staff of life, I love life in all its manifestations.

Someone who loves life, will never be enough words to describe it. The beauty of the day, the charm of the night. Dizzy with wine and sensual pleasures. Violin tenderness, passion work, health. Unimaginable happiness to Wake up in the morning with a full day ahead, a great day full of joys and worries. And you can revel in it while sleeping, like death, will not bind you immobile until the next morning. I never find words to thank heaven, or God, or my mother for what I appeared in this world where everything is for me: the freshness of the sheets and their bruising, intimacy with a lover, and loneliness, gray-blue ocean, smooth, straight ribbon of road to the Studio, music all radio stations and pleading look Lewis.

... my dear sentimental killer...

Sometimes life seemed inexorable, and on some feelings I thought they will never run out. But I'm forty five, I'm sitting in my garden, I have a great mood, and I don't love anyone.