One day you and I will have to have a little talk about this business called love. I still don't understand what it's all about. My guess is that it's just a gigantic hoax, invented to keep people quiet and diverted. Everyone talks about love: the priests, the advertising posters, the literati, and the politicians, those of them who make love. And in speaking of love and offering it as a panacea for every tragedy, they would and betray and kill both body and soul.

Arafat contradicts himself every five minutes. He always plays the double-cross, lies even if you ask him what time it is.

I've found what I was looking for, Child: what people call love between a man and a woman is a season. And if, at its flowering, this season is a feast of greenery, at its waning, it's only a heap of rotting leaves.

What's the point anyway - Of suffering, dying? It teaches us to live, boy. A man who does not struggle does not live, he survives.

You cannot survive if you do not know the past.

I have never met a man more shy than Clark Gable. He was so shy, you couldn't make him talk.

The increased presence of Muslims in Italy and in Europe is directly proportional to our loss of freedom.