Imagine an iron house without windows, absolutely indestructible, with many people fast asleep inside who will soon die of suffocation. But you know since they will die in their sleep, they will not feel the pain of death. Now if you cry aloud to wake a few of the lighter sleepers, making those unfortunate few suffer the agony of irrevocable death, do you think you are doing them a good turn?

Hope is like a path in the countryside. Originally, there is nothing - but as people walk this way again and again, a path appears.

Though science has given us many marvels, it has also spoiled many of our pleasant dreams.

The world is changing from day to day; it is high time for our writers to take off their masks, look frankly, keenly, and boldly at life, and write about real flesh and blood. It is high time for a brand-new arena for literature, high time for some bold fighters to charge headlong into battle!

If there are still men who really want to live in this world, they should first dare to speak out, to laugh, to cry, to be angry, to accuse, to fight-that they may at least cleanse this accursed place of its accursed atmosphere!

But anyone who thinks themselves genuinely unbiased is bound to be taken in.

Hope is a path on the mountainside. At first there is no path. But then there are people passing that way. And there is a path.