The rediscovered path, where were left the traces of childhood's lost steps.

When a private talk over a bottle of wine is broadcast on the radio, what can it mean but that the world is turning into a concentration camp?

Beauty has long since disappeared. It has slipped beneath the surface of the noise, the noise of words, sunk deep as Atlantis. The only thing left of it is the word, whose meaning loses clarity from year to year.

I cannot hate them because nothing binds me to them; I have nothing in common with them.

You can't measure the mutual affection of two human beings by the number of words they exchange.

A man who loses his privacy loses everything. And a man who gives it up of his own free will is a monster.

To die; to decide to die; that's much easier for an adolescent than for an adult. What? Doesn't death strip an adolescent of a far larger portion of future? Certainly it does, but for a young person, the future is a remote, abstract, unreal thing he doesn't really believe in.