There is a furnace in our cells, and when we breathe we pass the world through our bodies, brew it lightly, and turn it loose again, gently altered for having known us.

In the early years of the Uprising, we survived on one meal a day of horse meat and soup, but by the end we ate only dried peas, dogs, cats and birds.

Happiness doesn't require laughter, only well-being and a sense that the world is breaking someone else's heart, not mine.

Tranquillity hides in small spaces, and when found needs to be treasured, because you know it's a phantom that will slip away again.

We live on the leash of our senses. There is no way in which to understand the world without first detecting it through the radar-net of our senses.

When I set a glass prism on a windowsill and allow the sun to flood through it, a spectrum of colors dances on the floor. What we call "white" is a rainbow of colored rays packed into a small space. The prism sets them free. Love is the white light of emotion.

And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can't really share the enormity of our lives.