But was it love? Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his inaptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it? - Milan Kundera

So she stood naked in front of the young man and at this moment stopped playing the game.

Great novels are always a little more intelligent than their authors.

I invent stories, confront one with another, and by this means I ask questions. The stupidity of people comes from having an answer to everything. The wisdom of the novel comes from having a question for everything.