Growing old is partly an inescapable process of accommodation and adjustment.

I can always paint very well with my eyes, but with my hands it doesn't always work out.

If all the people who have been hurt by the war were to exclude joy from their lives, it would almost be as if they had died.

There are moments on most days when I feel a deep and sincere gratitude, when I sit at the open window, and there is a blue sky or moving clouds.

It is my duty to voice the sufferings of humankind, the never-ending sufferings heaped mountain high. This is my task, but it is not an easy one to fulfill.

Recently I began reading my old diaries. Back to before the war. Gradually I became very depressed. The reason for that is probably that I wrote only when there were obstacles and halts to the flow of life, seldom when everything was smooth and even. ... As I read I distinctly felt what a half-truth a diary presents.

Look at life with the eyes of a child.