A family is a burial mound of its own doings and sayings.

Love can never explain the loved one, my dear. It is the essence of wild unreason.

Many events seem to happen twice to me; even trifles, unimportant-seeming, recur, as if I were destined to live them again, time reconquered, but with added knowledge and a different outcome.

Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer, recognize and protect and comfort each other.

Persecution matures young rebels.

The rice bowl is to me the most valid reason in the world for doing anything. A piece of one's soul to the multitudes in return for rice and wine does not seem to me a sacrilege.

And there is not anything in the world stronger than tenderness.