It is impossible to go through life without trust: that is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself.

They can print statistics and count the populations in hundreds of thousands, but to each man a city consists of no more than a few streets, a few houses, a few people. Remove those few and a city exists no longer except as a pain in the memory, like a pain of an amputated leg no longer there.

A writer doesn't write for his readers, does he? Yet he has to take elementary precautions all the same, to make them comfortable.

In the end there is no desire so deep as the simple desire for companionship.

In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock!

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

Self-expression is a hard and selfish thing. It eats everything, even the self. At the end you find you haven't even got a self to express.