There is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter.

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.

The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit—for gallantry in defeat, for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally flags of hope and of emulation. I hold that a writer who does not believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There's no godliness there.

The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It's the monster. Men made it, but they can't control it.

Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world, of all living things.

My whole work drive has been aimed at making people understand each other. . .