I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.

How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain?