Yet another last night. The last night at home, the last night in the ghetto, the last night in the train, and, now, the last night in Buna. How much longer were our lives to be dragged out from one 'last night' to another?

Even in darkness it is possible to create light and encourage compassion. That it is possible to feel free inside a prison. That even in exile, friendship exists and can become an anchor. That one instant before dying, man is still immortal.

And action is the only remedy to indifference, the most insidious danger of all.

Warmed-over loves and soups are generally not recommended.

Oh, it is not death that frightens me, but the impossibility of imparting some meaning to my past.

It's not only America. Terrorism now is a threat to the whole world.

I did not weep, and it pained me that i could not weep. But I had no more tears. And, in the depths of my being, in the recesses of my weakened conscience, could I have searched it, I might perhaps have found something like--free at last!