Then I feel so happy and at the same time so sad, it's unimaginable.

The time has come for writers, especially those who are artists, to admit that in this world one cannot make anything out, just as Socrates once admitted it, just as Voltaire admitted it.

The desire to serve the common good must without fail be a requisite of the soul, a necessity for personal happiness; if it issuesnot from there, but from theoretical or other considerations, it is not at all the same thing.

Everyone has the same God; only people differ.

Lying is the same as alcoholism. Liars prevaricate even on their deathbeds.

Write about this man who, drop by drop, squeezes the slave's blood out of himself until he wakes one day to find the blood of a real human being--not a slave's--coursing through his veins.

We learn about life not from plusses alone, but from minuses as well.