Great persecutors are recruited among martyrs whose heads haven't been cut off.
I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.
There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.
Wisdom disguises our wounds; it teaches us how to bleed in secret.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.