Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.

Failure to love is almost like murder.

Man is born to live, not to prepare for life.

You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.

I am caught like a beast at bay. Somewhere are people, freedom, light, But all I hear is the baying of the pack, There is no way out for me.

I have been writing in spurts, bit by bit. It is incredibly difficult. Everything is corroded, broken, dismantled; everything is covered with hardened layers of accumulated insensitivity, deafness, entrenched routine. It is disgusting.

What you don't understand is that it is possible to be an atheist, it is possible not to know if God exists or why He should, and yet to believe that man does not live in a state of nature but in history, and that history as we know it now began with Christ, it was founded by Him on the Gospels.