Everyone knows that all these big proclamations about honor are really just excuses invented to let people kill each other with a clear conscience.
You’ll learn it all soon enough… You will see everything without being seen. You will hear everything but pretend that you haven’t…You will walk for ten hours a day but feel like you haven’t walked at all.
When you look into the faces of these quiet creatures who don’t know how to tell stories—who are mute, who can’t make themselves heard, who fade into the woodwork, who only think of the perfect answer after the fact, after they’re back at home, who can never think of a story that anyone else will find interesting—is there not more depth and more meaning in them? You can see every letter of every untold story swimming on their faces, and all the signs of silence, dejection, and even defeat. You can even imagine your own face in those faces, can’t you?
To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that’s still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep.
There are two kinds of men. The first kind does not fall in love until he’s seen how the girl eats a sandwich, how she combs her hair, what sort of nonsense she cares about, why she’s angry at her father, and what sorts of stories people tell about her. The second type of man—and I am in this category—can fall in love with a woman only if he knows next to nothing about her.