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Yes, again and again, because I'm addicted to this book, but this time is different. I'm going to read it with a lovely group.

Well, I hate it, but I have an exam, and I have to read it. God help me to bear it until I finish.

For years now, Turin was full of German Jews who’d fled Germany. Some of them were even assistants in my father’s laboratory. They were people without a country. Maybe, soon, we too would be without a country, forced to move from one country to another, from one police station to the next, without work or roots or family or homes.

As World War II closes in on Jewish families and friends, I feel breathless because they don’t know what will happen, but I do.

The dream about the dog was really agonizing for me.

I've been reading and re-reading this book for two years. It has been an odyssey. I'm obsessed with its captivating prose and can't bring myself to finish it, but it's time to do so.

Stay on the earth, you eagles of the future! The heavens have been explored and they are empty. And what lies under the earth is empty too, filled with bones and shadows. Stay on the earth and swim another few hundred thousand years!

Paris is like a whore. From a distance she seems ravishing, you can’t wait until you have her in your arms. And five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked.

My world of human beings had perished; I was utterly alone in the world and for friends I had the streets, and the streets spoke to me in that sad, bitter language compounded of human misery, yearning, regret, failure, wasted effort.

The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world, the charnel house to which the stinking wombs confide their bloody packages of flesh and bone.

Such a huge Paris! It would take a lifetime to explore it again. This Paris, to which I alone had the key, hardly lends itself to a tour, even with the best of intentions; it is a Paris that has to be lived, that has to be experienced each day in a thousand different forms of torture, a Paris that grows inside you like a cancer, and grows and grows until you are eaten away by it.

For the man in the paddock, whose duty is is to sweep up manure, the supreme terror is the possibility of a world without horses. To tell him that it is disgusting to spend one’s life shoveling up hot turds is a piece of imbecility. A man can get to love shit if his livelihood depends on it, if his happiness is involved.

I never have read anything by O'Connor and the first four stories were quite outstanding. I guess other stories even may be better.
I have a plan for studying Southern Gothic literature and I started with Flannery O'Connor.