In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest, there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools

because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie.

All roads lead to Johannesburg.

But to punish and not to restore, that is the greatest of all offences.

There are voices crying what must be done, a hundred, a thousand voices. But what do they help if one seeks for counsel, for one cries this, and one cries that, and another cries something that is neither this nor that.

Sorrow is better than fear. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey. But, sorrow is at least an arriving.

And were your back as broad as heaven, and your purse full of gold, and did your compassion reach from here to hell itself, there is nothing you can do.