Self-discontent, that is the venom that feeds malice. (p147) - Marie Vieux-Chauvet

At dawn, I was already flat against the wall, drinking up the least signs of life from the town like a starving man. Nothing stirred. All around, immutable nature seemed to mock our anguish.

What am I running away from that I so drunkenly welcome this glimmer of love in my life? (p56)

Alone again, she had invented touchingly naïve myths to console herself: a leaf whirling in the wind, a butterfly whether black or alive with color, the hooting of an owl or the graceful song of a nightingale, everything seemed pregnant with meaning. (chapter 8)