Death does that: it makes everyone feel sentimental. When we stand in front of a coffin, we all see only what is good or what we want to see.

I could tell you it's the heart, but what is really killing him is loneliness. Memories are worse than bullets.

Fools talk, cowards are silent, wise men listen.

The air seemed poisoned with fear and hatred. People eyed on another suspiciously, and the streets smelled of a silence that knotted your stomach.

It is impossible to survive in a prolonged state of reality.

Our world will not die as the result of the bomb, as the papers say, it will die of laughter, of banality, or making a joke of everything, and a lousy joke at that.

It might have been that notion, or just chance, or its more flamboyant relative, destiny.