I wasn't in love with her. And she didn't love me. For me the question of love was irrelevant. What I sought was the sense of being tossed about by some raging, savage force, in the midst of whisch lay something absolutely crucial. I had no idea what that was. But I wanted to thrust my hand right inside her body and touch it, whatever it was.
* Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun
* Imagem ilustração via Mister Owl
Marcadores: Meu querido diário - Dia estranhíssimo
