Alcohol is barren. The words a man speaks in the night of drunkenness fade like the darkness itself at the coming of day.

The woman is the home. That's where she used to be, and that's where she still is. You might ask me, What if a man tries to be part of the home -- will the woman let him? I answer yes. Because the he becomes one of the children.

Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.

In a certain state of mind, all trace of feeling is banished. Whenever I remain silent in a certain way, I don't love you, have you noticed that?

You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die.

No other human being, no woman, no poem or music, book or painting can replace alcohol in its power to give man the illusion of real creation.

For that's what a woman, a mother wants - to teach her children to take an interest in life. She knows it's safer for them to be interested in other people's happiness than to believe in their own.