This world, such as it is, is not tolerable. Therefore I need the moon, or happiness, or immortality, I need something which is perhaps demented, but which is not of this world.

Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn’t flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.

Even when one sits in the prisoner's dock, it is interesting to hear talk about oneself.

That's love, giving everything, sacrificing all without hope of return.

On my way out I was even going to shake his hand, but I remembered just in time that I'd killed a man.

I hope the dogs don't bark tonight. I always think it's mine

I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead. I couldn't even say that this was hard to stomach; really, there's no idea to which one doesn't get acclimatized in time.