Of all writings I love only that which is written with blood. Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit.

Pitch-black winter nights live in my bones.

Men have hitherto treated women like birds which have strayed down to them from the heights; as something more delicate, more fragile, more savage, stranger, sweeter, soulful--but as something which has to be caged up so that it shall not fly away.

Man alone suffers so excruciatingly in the world that he was compelled to invent laughter.

He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.

Every step forward is made at the cost of mental and physical pain to someone.

When we have to change our mind about a person, we hold the inconvenience he causes us very much against him.