It occurred to me that anyway one more Sunday was over that Maman was buried now, that I was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed.

But - I cannot make a choice. I have my own sorrow, but I suffer with him, too; I share his pain. I understand all - that is my trouble.

One always has exaggerated ideas about what one doesn't know.

Truth is not a virtue, but a passion. It is never charitable.

If, after all, men cannot always make history have a meaning, they can always act so that their own lives have one.

But all the long speeches, all the interminable days and hours that people had spent talking about my soul, had left me with the impression of a colorless swirling river that was making me dizzy.

We are rebels for a cause, poets with a dream , and we won't let this world die without a fight.