When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.

And if there is no lining to the world? If a thrush on a branch is not a sign, But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day Make no sense following each other?

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.

All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.

There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?