I simply haven't the nerve to imagine a being, a force, a cause which keeps the planets revolving in their orbits and then suddenly stops in order to give me a bicycle with three speeds.

Never sweep. After four years the dirt gets no worse.

Every day someone notices me and waves to me, or stops and speaks to me, or asks me for an autograph, or photographs me.

The more people one has to love, the more one's capacity to love stretches.

Central Europe is full of little countries standing shoulder to shoulder with no window to the sea. They are like the passengers in a rush-hour train which has stopped between stations for three centuries. And they all hate one another. And they're all crushed together waving their national flags, clanking their national chains, jabbering their national language.

I don't know how people act. I've never understood that.

Muddled syntax is the outward and audible sign of confused minds, and the misuse of grammar the result of illogical thinking.