Here I am...wanting to accomplish something and completely forgetting it must all end--that there is such a thing as death.

One ought only to write when one leaves a piece of one's own flesh in the inkpot, each time one dips one's pen.

We lost because we told ourselves we lost.

I imagine, joking apart, that to know love, one must make mistakes and then correct them.

Life did not stop, and one had to live.

One can live magnificently in this world if one knows how to work and how to love.

Since corrupt people unite amongst themselves to constitute a force, then honest people must do the same.