همه‌ی این جدایی‌ها مرا ناخواسته به فکر آنچه جبران‌ناپذیر بود و روزی فرامی‌رسید می‌انداخت، هرچند که آن زمان هرگز جدی به امکان زنده‌ماندنِ خودم پس از مرگ مادرم فکر نکرده‌بودم. عزمم این بود که یک دقیقه از مرگ مادرم نگذشته خودم را بکشم. بعداً، غیبت مادرم چیزهایی از این تلخ‌تر به من آموخت، آموخت که آدم به غیبت عادت می‌کند، بزرگ‌ترین نقصانِ خویشتن و بزرگ‌ترین رنج این است که حس کنی از غیبت رنج نمی‌کشی.

I felt that I did not really remember her except through the pain, and I longed for the nails that riveted her to my consciousness to be driven yet deeper.

She was capable of causing me pain, but no longer any joy. Pain alone kept my wearisome attachment alive.

Unkind people imagine themselves to be inflicting pain on someone equally unkind.

I understood that all the material of a literary work was in my past life, I understood that I had acquired it in the midst of frivolous amusements, in idleness, in tenderness and in pain, stored up by me without my divining its destination or even its survival, as the seed has in reserve all the ingredients which will nourish the plant.