Suddenly many movements are going on within me, many things are happening, there is an almost unbearable sense of sprouting, of bursting encasements, of moving kernels, expanding flesh.

It's not the suffering of birth, death, love that the young reject, but the suffering of endless labor without dream, eating the spare bread in bitterness, being a slave without the security of a slave.

Writing is primarily a sensuous and creative expression of life.

An abyss seems to have opened between the intellectual cosmopolites of culture and the people, hungry for word and meaning.

It was the bumble bee and the butterfly who survived, not the dinosaur.

The history of an oppressed people is hidden in the lies and the agreed myth of its conquerors.

Human history is work history. The heroes of the people are work heroes.