I'll Never Fall In Love Again... It's

...the Girl Raised Her Eyes To See Who Was Passing By The Window, And That Casual Glance Was The Beginning Of A Cataclysm Of Love That Still Had Not Ended Half A Century Later.

His Mysterious Resources Had Awakened In Her A Curiosity That Was Difficult To Resist, But She Had Never Imagined That Curiosity Was One Of The Many Masks Of Love.

Most Critics Don't Realize That A Novel Like One Hundred Years Of Solitude Is A Bit Of A Joke, Full Of Signals To Close Friends; And So, With Some Pre-ordained Right To Pontificate They Take On The Responsibility Of Decoding The Book And Risk Making Terrible Fools Of Themselves.

Ultimately, Literature Is Nothing But Carpentry.

Nothing Resembles A Person As Much As The Way He Dies.