There is a river whose waters give  immortality; somewhere there must be  another river whose waters take it away. The  number of rivers is not infinite; an immortal  traveler wandering the world will someday have  drunk from them all.

Time, which alone makes the reputation of men, ends by making their defects respectable.

There could have been no two hearts So open, no tastes so similar, no feelings So in unison, no countenances So beloved. Now they were strangers; Nay, worse than strangers, for they Could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.

Written By Carlos Ruiz Zafón

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