جميعنا, في جزء ما من أنفسنا, نعيش وراء الزمن. ربما أننا لا نعي عمرنا إلا في لحظات استثنائية, وأننا معظم الوقت أشخاص بلا أعمار. - Milan Kundera

Is a novel anything but a trap set for a hero?

I looked at her; I saw a slipshod permanet crumpling her hair into a shapeless mass of curls; I saw a brown overcoat, pitifully threadbare and a bit too shot; I saw a face both unobtrusively attractive and attractively unobtrusive; I sensed in this young woman tranquillity, simplicity and modesty, and I felt that these were qualities I needed; moreover, it seemed to me that we were very much akin: all I had to do was to go up and start talking to her and she would smile as if a long-lost brother had suddenly appeared before her.

Aren't we living in a world where heedless men only desire decapitated women?