Lisbon, to me, is the Lisbon of Pessoa. Just like London is Woolf’s, or rather, Mrs. Dalloway’s. Barcelona is Gaudí's and Rome is da Vinci’s. You see them in every crevice and hear their echoes in every cathedral. I’d like to be the child, or rather, the mother of a city but I neither have a home nor a resting place. My race is humankind. My religion is kindness. My work is love and, well, my city is the walls of your heart.

Bowen looked nervously about for peasants. It would be unendurable if they all turned out to be full of instinctive wisdom and natural good manners and unself-conscious grace and a deep, articulate understanding of death.

There are two kinds of persons which cannot be trusted in this world : the ones who do not greet you with a firm handshake and the ones who do not eat prawn heads.

From one small spark a bushfire grows.Sellers of misery are our foes.Merging ruthlessly tongues of flame.Point your finger at those to blame.