Its typical of Mexico, of the whole human race perhaps — violence in favour of an ideal and then the ideal lost but the violence just going on.

There was always another side to a joke, the side of the victim.

Death will come in any case, and there is a long afterwards if the priests are right and nothing to fear if they are wrong.

One can't love humanity. One can only love people.

He had stylized himself--life was easier that way. He had chosen a physical mould just as writer chooses a technical form.

Hope was an instinct only the reasoning human mind could kill. An animal never knew despair.

All good novelists have bad memories.