He knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it must cease one day or another. He looked forward to that day with eager longing. Love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his life's blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that he could take pleasure in nothing else.

The important thing was to love rather than to be loved.

She loved three things — a joke, a
glass of wine, and a handsome man.