Sometimes I wish I knew how to go crazy. I forget how.

They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could see one after another of them being killed--run over, maimed, destroyed--but they continued to play anyhow.

In a civil war… every side is wrong. It’s hopeless to try to untangle it. Everyone is a victim.

Why does a man cry? he wondered. Not like a woman; not for that. Not for sentiment. A man cries over the loss of something, something alive. A man can cry over a sick animal that he knows won't make it. The death of a child: a man can cry for that. But not because things are sad. A man, he thought, cries not for the future or the past but for the present.

The problem with introspection is that it has no end.

In a society of criminals, the innocent man goes to jail.

It really seems to me that in the midst of great tragedy, there is always the horrible possibility that something terribly funny will happen.