You write your first novel with the desperation of the damned. You're afraid that you'll never write anything else, ever again.

You can say anything, anything, if it is beautifully said.

Love is not feeling, child, nor even the passion of lovers, which always seeks only its own gratification. It is the act of caring, of giving, the act of protecting the weak, the helpless, the imprisoned and the desperate. Love is the hand raised in defence. You cannot love and keep your hands clean.