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

Perhaps the act of writing is necessary when nothing happens.

Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it's loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star.

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

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

Yet there seemed to be some truth in the law of probability, according to which the chance of success is directly proportionate to the number of repetitions.

Far happier he, who, young and full of pride And radiant with the glory of the sun, Leaves earth before his singing time is done. All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide, His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.