We remember nothing. Maybe for a year or two. Maybe most of a life, if we live. Maybe. But then we will die, and who will ever understand any of this? And maybe we remember nothing most of all when we put our hands on our hearts and carry on about not forgetting.

Writing is not lying, nor is it theft. It is a journey and search for transparency between one’s words and one’s soul.

When forging money, I had always salved my conscience by concluding that I was merely extending the lie of commerce.

One cannot distinguish between human and non-human acts. One cannot point, one cannot say this man here is a man and that man there is a devil.

What reality was ever made by realists?

The path to survival was to never give up on the small things.

The enslavement, humiliation, torture, and ultimate destruction of thousands upon thousands of human beings for a project for which there was ultimately no purpose is a horror that's very hard to imagine, far less understand.