Maybe each human being lives in a unique world, a private world, a world different from those inhabited and experienced by all other humans.

Writing is a lonely way of life. You shut yourself up in your study and work and work.

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

You must beware of seeing malice behind accidental injury.

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.

Strange how paranoia can link up with reality now and then.

I mean, after all, you have to consider we're only made out of dust. That's admittedly not much to go on and we shouldn't forget that. But even considering, I mean it's sort of a bad beginning, we're not doing too bad. So I personally have faith that even in this lousy situation we're faced with we can make it. You get me?