The world is a heap of people, a sea of tiny flames.

The walls are the publishers of the poor.

Poets and beggars, musicians and prophets, warriors and scoundrels, all creatures of that unbridled reality, we have had to ask but little of our imagination, for our crucial problem has been a lack of conventional means to render our lives believable. This, my friends, is the crux of our solitude.

We Latins are known for jabbering on.

Charity, vertical, humiliates. Solidarity, horizontal, helps.

Utopia lies at the horizon. When I draw nearer by two steps, it retreats two steps. If I proceed ten steps forward, it swiftly slips ten steps ahead. No matter how far I go, I can never reach it. What, then, is the purpose of utopia? It is to cause us to advance.

Soccer, metaphor for war, at times turns into real war.