Desire, Beatriz had written, was what a man will deny himself until he can’t.

To kiss a man who understood none of the connotations of her country had been like a vacation from herself.

He wondered what it would take for there to be a true reckoning with the repressive roles men imposed on each other, a moment when acting despotic would finally be recognized as the weakness that it was.

She had a delicate, chiseled face but there was something ferocious about her, too – a scrutiny of the world so intense it bordered on sensual.

Un uomo capace di fare silenzio, è un uomo capace di iniziare.

E se le sue dita avessero fallito il compito, se i suoi pensieri si fossero rivelati indegni di essere scritti, chi l’avrebbe saputo? Era sola con tutte le ore della sua vita.

To have made a coat of words and cloaked yourself in it.

The world made no exception for lovers.