It had been our first experience of an evening formally dedicated to mass intoxication, and we had enjoyed it enormously.

Wisdom is just cleverness, with all the guts kicked out of it. I’d rather be clever than wise, any day. Most of the wise people I know give me a headache, but I never met a clever man or woman I didn’t like. If I was giving wise advice-which I’m not-I’d say don’t get drunk, don’t spend all your money, and don’t fall in love with a pretty village girl. That would be wise. That’s the difference between clever and wise.

Love survives in us precisely because it isn’t wise.

The legends say that the loved one is instantly recognised because she’s loved in every gesture, every expression of thought, every movement, every sound, and every mood that prays in her eyes. The legends say that we know her by her wings-the wings that only we can see-and because wanting her kills every other desire of love.

The voice, Afghan matchmakers say, is more than half of love.

‘You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!’