We used to wonder where war lived, what it was that made it so vile. And now we realize that we know where it lives... inside ourselves.

There is in me an anarchy and frightful disorder. Creating makes me die a thousand deaths, because it means making order, and my entire being rebels against order. But without it I would die, scattered to the winds.

In our society, any man who doesn't cry at his mother's funeral is liable to be condemned to death.

... I suppose that it is not so easy to go home and it takes a bit of time to make a son out of a stranger.

In Italian museums are sometimes found little painted screens that the priest used to hold in front of the face of condemned men to hide the scaffold from them.

It is a well-known fact that we always recognize our homeland at the moment we are about to lose it.

When there is no hope, one must invent hope.