Lisos à superfície, somos todos feitos de ossos, os quais, e à semelhança das serpentes, se vão contorcendo.

Virginia Woolf – As Ondas (1931)

Colecção Mil Folhas / Bibliotex SL / M.E.D.I.A.S.A.T. e Promoway Portugal Ltda (2002)

And so after a while she had sat up and he had said, "Stay, Olive." But she did not stay. "Call me," he said. "I would like it if you called me." She had not called. He could call her if he wanted to. And he had not called [...] He had sent one email with a bunch of question marks in the subject line and nothing more. That was an email? Olive didn't think so.

Elizabeth Strout – Olive, Again (2019)
Penguin Random House UK (2019)

um amor sem a união dos corpos é místico e incompleto 

George Sand – Diário Íntimo

Antígona (2004)