A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution.

So that is what hell is. I would never have believed it. You remember: the fire and brimstone, the torture. Ah! the farce. There is no need for torture: Hell is other people.

So much torture, bloodshed, deceit. You cannot make your young people practice torture twenty-four hours a day and not expect to pay a price for it.

I am not asking for sensational revelations, but I would like to sense the meaning of that minute, to feel it's urgency.

Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

When she is alone in the rooms I hear her humming to keep herself from thinking.

This [service to oppressed] is the writer's task, and, if he fulfills it as he should, he acquires no merit from it.