“Perenelle shuddered. "You know I hate leprechauns more than almost anything.”
“I hated him more than anything. I loved him more than anything. Because, he was everything. And I hated that, too.”
“Still, I hate them. But, of course, I hate almost everybody now. Myself more than anyone.”
“You couldn’t truly love anything if you didn’t hate at least something. Indeed, perhaps you couldn’t truly love anything if you didn’t hate almost everything.”
“This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence?”
“Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.”