It is natural to give a clear view of the world after accepting the idea that it must be clear.

[Love] is the type of disease that spares neither the intelligent nor the idiotic.

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.

After all, every murderer when he kills runs the risk of the most dreadful of deaths, whereas those who kill him risk nothing except promotion.

At that time, I often thought that if I had had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but look up at the sky flowing overhead, little by little I would have gotten used to it.

Everything is true, and nothing is true!

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.