I wonder how many people I've looked at all my life and never seen.

I dislike helplessness in other people and in myself, and this is by far my greatest fear of illness.

I have lost all sense of home, having moved about so much. It means to me now--only that place where the books are kept.

The land is so much more than its analysis.

A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through their mesh of prejudice, some paint it with their own delight. A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept wonders.

You are not a man anymore. You are a soldier. Your comfort is of no importance and your life isn't of much importance. Most of your orders will be unpleasant, but that's not your business. They should've trained you for this, and not for flower-strewn streets. They should have built your soul with truth, not led along with lies.

And then we take a soldier and put murder in his hands and we say to him, "Use it well, use it wisely.