“Through tears, she couldn’t ask the hardest question. But I had theanswer. “He’s moving.”

“All the first years, their only question had been -- asked with beseechings and tears that might have moved stone, in time, perhaps, but hearts are not stones: "Is he alive?" "Is she alive?”

“Do you believe in God?” he asks.“Do you?”“I used to”“What happened?”“I couldn’t find him. He’s supposed to be everywhere. I mean, he’s not supposed to be playing hide-and-seek.”

“My message will be very clear; it is that I think we have to continue to read novels. Because I think that the novel is a very good means to question the current world without having an answer that is too schematic, too automatic. The novelist, he’s not a philosopher, not a technician of spoken language. He’s someone who writes, above all, and through the novel asks questions.”

“I let her ask the questions. Predictably, the main questions she had were 'What?' and 'Am I going to be on the menu?' Oh, and 'What?”

“After the masquerade, if we had found each other, if I had asked it of you, would you have taken me as your lover?”She closed her eyes, but it only made her more acutely aware of his hands moving down to caress her arms. She couldn’t think. Why did he ask? Would a lie be kinder than the truth? Everything was blurring.“Yes.”