Every man, and for stronger reasons, every artist, wants to be recognized. So do I.
There are always reasons for murdering a man. But there is no justification for his existence.
There is no more futile punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
And for all his life it would be kindness and love that made him cry, never pain or persecution, which on the contrary only reinforced his spirit and his resolution.
And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.
No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and emotions shared by all.