When a writer receives praise or blame, when he arouses sympathy or is ridiculed, when he is loved or rejected, it is not on the strength of his thoughts and dreams as a whole, but only of that infinitesimal part which has been able to make its way through the narrow channel of language and the equally narrow channel of the reader's understanding.

This happiness consisted of nothing else but the harmony of the few things around me with my own existence, a feeling of contentment and well-being that needed no changes and no intensification.

It was all a lie, it all stank, stank of lies, it all gave the illusion of meaning and happiness and beauty, and all of it was just putrefaction that no one would admit to. Bitter was the taste of the world. Life was a torment.

You must find your dream...but no dream lasts forever, each dream is followed by another, and one should not cling to any particular dream.

...and the vessel was not full, his intellect was not satisfied, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not still.

You must find your dream, then the way becomes easy.

Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.