The profession of the writer has its thorns about which the reader does not dream.

It has been said that Poland is dead, exhausted, enslaved, but here is the proof of her life and triumph.

There is within us a moral instinct which forbids us to rejoice at the death of even an enemy.

But I think happiness springs from another source, a far deeper one that doesn't depend on will because it comes from love.

An excessive preponderance of an idealistic mood is harmful to society: it creates daydreaming, political Don Quixotism, hope for heavenly intervention. This is an undeniable truth--but it is also true that every extreme is harmful.

This homage has been rendered not to me - for the Polish soil is fertile and does not lack better writers than me - but to the Polish achievement, the Polish genius.

The fact is that between the classes there is a vast gulf that precludes all mutual understanding, and makes simultaneous efforts simply impossible.