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.

I remember when I heard the words "Biblical criticism" in my town, it was with disdain: "Biblical criticism? How dare you?".

I came to the conclusion that I am free to choose my own suffering. But I am not free to consent to someone else's suffering.

I think this century more than any other really has seen the phenomenon of people being uprooted in such numbers, such a degree. They even have a word for it: The refugees. It's a new word, a 20th Century word, but refugee is actually a misnomer.

Man, as long as he lives, is immortal. One minute before his death he shall be immortal. But one minute later, God wins.

How can a human being be illegal?

Whatever you think in life... think higher and feel deeper.