The artist must bow to the monster of his own imagination.

All literature is protest.

They hate because they fear, and they fear because they feel that the deepest feelings of their lives are being assaulted and outraged. And they do not know why; they are powerless pawns in a blind play of social forces.

Violence is a personal necessity for the oppressed...It is not a strategy consciously devised. It is the deep, instinctive expression of a human being denied individuality.

It would have been impossible for me to have told anyone what I derived from these novels, for it was nothing less than a sense of life itself.

Make up your mind, Snail! You are half inside your house, And halfway out!

He had lived and acted on the assumption that he was alone, and now he saw that he had not been. What he had done made others suffer. No matter how much he would long for them to forget him, they would not be able to. His family was a part of him, not only in blood, but in spirit.