Mankind, which has always been a part of nature, has reached a point where it is too much for nature to accommodate.

Time cannot be spurred on like a horse.

Work seemed something fundamental for man, something which enabled him to endure the aimless flight of time.

Something whose connection with human experience we cannot grasp is bound to be frightening.

Nature with her wealth of birds and flowers, Has in her heart a place for every weed; For her quick eyes require no microscope To note the varied wonders and delights That the Creator's humblest works possess.

Many people ask why a writer commits suicide. But I think that people who ask don't know the vanity and the nothingness of writing. I think it is very usual and natural for a writer to commit suicide, because in order to keep on writing he must be a very strong person.

When I was young, I could bounce back from things like a brand-new rubber ball.