So all a man could win in the conflict between plague and life was knowledge and memories.

We don't have the time to completely be ourselves. We only have the room to be happy.

God put self-pity by the side of despair like the cure by the side of the disease.

At a certain level of suffering or injustice no one can do anything for anyone. Pain is solitary.

He seemed so certain about everything, didn't he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman's head. He wasn't even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man.

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

Every revolutionary ends up either by becoming an oppressor or a heretic.