I have learned two lessons in my life: first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones. Second, just as despair can come to one another only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings.

Which is worse? Killing with hate or killing without hate?

The Holocaust is not a cheap soap opera. The Holocaust is not a romantic novel. It is something else.

The act of writing is for me often nothing more than the secret or conscious desire to carve words on a tombstone: to the memory of a town forever vanished, to the memory of a childhood in exile, to the memory of all those I loved and who, before I could tell them I loved them, went away.

We're alone, but we are capable of communicating to one another both our loneliness and our desire to break through it. You say, 'I'm alone.' Someone answers, 'I'm alone too.' There's a shift in the scale of power. A bridge is thrown between the two abysses.

No one may speak for the dead, no one may interpret their mutilated dreams and visions.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.