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While I was running up the hill, my dad stayed and got stung, to give me time to run away. His glasses had fallen off when he ran.
He said that he wasn't scared when he was standing there and the wasps were stinging him and hurting him and he was watching me run away. Because he knew he had to give me enough time to run, or the wasps would have come after both of us. And he said that it wasn't brave of him, doing that, just standing there and being stung. It wasn't brave because he wasn't scared: it was the only thing he could do. But going back again to get his glasses, when he knew the wasps were there, when he was really scared. That was brave.
Because when you're scaredbut you still do it anyway, that's brave.

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It's quite extrordinary how people nowadays go around stating things that are absolutely true and reliable.

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She's engaged but not in love. I've discovered there are so many. They're dreamers, those who've waited for their prince charming and not seeing him arrive, started to think they had been wrong. They started to think that their prince charming fell from his horse and is now in the local hospital's recovery ward.
Taken by the fear of being left alone and by the need of some tenderness, they hooked up with the white horse. You recognize them immediately when you meet them, they're those who you can sometimes see looking through the window. It's undoubtedly harder to want to be with someone to not be left alone and behaving like proper fiancées, intead of being so naturally.

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At the moment when the horror of the scene was at its height, a demoniacal laugh, a laugh that can only come from one who has lost all semblance of humanity, burst from the livid lips of the priest. Quasimodo did not hear that laugh, but he saw it. Retreating a few paces behind the Archdeacon, the hunchback suddenly made a rush at him, and with his two great hands against Dom Claude's back, thrust him furiously into the abyss over which he had been leaning.
The priest screamed "Damnation!" and fell. (from "Notre Dame de Paris")

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I would like that you would come to me in winter evening and, tightened together behind the glasses, looking at the loneliness of the dark and frosted roads, we remembered the winters of fables, where we lived togheter without knowing it.

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Writing os one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit in front of my computer, I observe my soul's unknown ocean and I see a few islands - ideas which are developing and that are ready to be explored. And so I take my boat - its name is "Word" - and I choose to sail towards the closest of them. On the journey, I come across currents, winds and storms, but I go on rowing, growing more tired. I am conscious of being off route, of not having on the horizon the island I wanted to reach anymore. All the same there is no way of going back: I have to continue anyway, or I shall find myself lost amidst the ocean. At that moment a series of terrifying images cross my mind: I that spend the rest of my life talking of previous success, or sourly crticizing new writers for the simple fact of not having the courage of publishing any new material. But wasn't my dream that of being a writer? Therefore I must go on creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters and Wrtiting to exhaustion, without letting myself be paralized by success, by defeat, by traps along the way.
Shaken by such absurd thoughts, I find within myself a strength and courage of which I ignored the existence: they help me to adventure to the boundless side of my soul. I let myself be carried by the currents and I end up anchoring my boat in the proximity of the island to where I have been taken. I spend days and nights wrtiting what I see, asking myself why am I acting this way, repeating to myself every moment why this effort has become useless, that I have no nedd to prove anything to anyone, that I have already obtained what I wanted and a lot more of what I could possibly dream of.

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She fills everything. She is the only reason I am alive. I look around, I prepare myself for
the talk I am to give, and I understand why I braved the snow, the traffic jams, and the ice on the roads: in order to be reminded that every day I need to rebuild myself and to accept for the first time in my entire existence that I love another human being more than I love myself.

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The really great writers are those whose thought occupies all the angles and the folds of their style.

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The discipline of the written word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty.

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The profession of book-writing makes horse-racing seem like a solid, stable business.