It occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility.

Facing it, always facing it, that's the way to get through. Face it.

Going home must be like going to render an account.

There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies.

We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness

A man is a worker. If he is not that he is nothing.

In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom, especially if it has got to be carried into the market.