Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends

At great periods you have always felt, deep within you, the temptation to commit suicide. You gave yourself to it, breached your own defenses. You were a child. The idea of suicide was a protest against life; by dying, you would escape this longing for death.

The man who cannot live with charity, sharing other men's pain, is punished by feeling his own with intolerable anguish.

Literature is a defense against the attacks of life. It says to life: You can't deceive me. I know your habits, foresee and enjoy watching all your reactions, and steal your secret by involving you in cunning obstructions that halt your normal flow.

We commit two wrongs when we fail to right a wrong.

We can all do good deeds, but very few of us can think good thoughts.

Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky - all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.