Why do men carry guns and build prison camps, when the nurturing earth is made for freedom?
One reason writers write is out of revenge.
After a certain number of years, our faces become our biographies.
Awe consumes any brand that ignites it.
He who cries, 'What do I care about universality? I only know what is in me,' does not know even that.
When something does not insist on being noticed, when we aren't grabbed by the collar or struck on the skull by a presence or an event, we take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.