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.
You are afraid of it because it is stronger than you; you hate it because you are afraid of it; you love it because you cannot subdue it to your will. Only the unsubduable can be loved.
This is how it happens: the sun flies slower and slower, until it hangs suspended, motionless. And everything is locked, imbedded for eternity in greenish glass.
We have long become overgrown with calluses; we no longer hear people being killed. (X)