As you know, I describe Shirat ha-Yam as part of an epic story that has qualities of history and which also has qualities of the mythological, of an epic.

I was convinced that hatred among nations and among people perished in Auschwitz. It didn't. The victims died but the haters are still here.

The more we know, the more pain we have. But because we are human beings, this must be. Otherwise we become objects rather than subjects.

It was pitch dark. I could hear only the violin, and it was as though Juliek's soul were the bow. He was playing his life. The whole of his life was gliding on the strings--his last hopes, his charred past, his extinguished future. He played as he would never play again...When I awoke, in the daylight, I could see Juliek, opposite me, slumped over, dead. Near him lay his violin, smashed, trampled, a strange overwhelming little corpse.

One more stab to the heart, one more reason to hate. One less reason to live.

Life is really fascinated only by death. It vibrates only when it comes in contact with death.

In those dark times, one rose to the very heights of humanity by simply remaining human.