Book: We'll always have Paris

The silence broken only by squarcione is the sun roasted heaven.

Sometimes cowardice is the only way. From time to time a person can tolerate, and then to escape, unless you find someone to rout instead.

"If I have something that can be given painlessly? To give and not to lose?"
And the answer came by itself: of course, talent.
"My talent! thought Pietro. - The more you give, the greater and richer."

For me, writing stories is like breathing. I look around, find the idea, imbued with love for her and try not to talk long. Then write: just giving her the opportunity to quickly vent on paper.

When you start to pick at the mind of their friends and different events, funny I remember in the first place.

When a person is twenty-nine years and nine months, he doesn't care. But when you're thirty-anybody living or dead is done, life is over, love is gone, quarry is into a ditch or flies into the pipe. ● And man is the next ten or twenty years, bypassing the thirtieth, the fortieth anniversary and moving to the fiftieth anniversary, it is wise not referring to time, not trying to cling to life with all his strength, letting the wind blow and the river to flow. But God, the merciful, suddenly, you reach the fifties, this cute round numbers, solid result, and then - boom! Depression and horror. Where did the years? What did you do for your life?

Every week, every year you see a lot of people, and most of them are destined to sink into oblivion. The only thing that remains then is to look at vague moments of those years and remember where your life briefly touched on the life of another.

All from loneliness. Man is a gregarious animal: get it off from the usual everyday life, from women, from home and city his brain starts to melt down. What a lousy, when a person is lonely.