You think you are killing me. I think you are committing suicide.

One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.

I have been my own disciple and my own master. And I have been a good disciple but a bad master.

Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists.

I would go to heaven, but I would take my hell; I would not go alone.

Sometimes at night I light a lamp so as not to see.

The confession of one man humbles all.