Yiddish, the language which will ever bear witness to the violence and murder inflicted on us, bear the marks of our expulsions from land to land, the language which absorbed the wails of the fathers, the laments of the generations, the poison and bitterness of history, the language whose precious jewels are the undried, uncongealed Jewish tears.

A stranger's rose is but a thorn.

Prayer sometimes dulls the hunger of the pauper, like a mother's finger thrust into the mouth of her starving baby.

The worst dog gets the best bone.

Time is change, transformation, evolution.

A people's memory is history; and as a man without a memory, so a people without a history cannot grow wiser, better.

In the second and third exiles we have served as a living protest against greed and hate, against physical force, against "might makes right"!