The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.

A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death - the huge solace of thinking that for our betrayals, greed, cowardice, murders we are not going to be judged.

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.

Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.