we interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation.

There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn't clear ... was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.

So everything lets us down, including curiosity and honesty and what we love best. Yes, said the voice, but cheer up, it's fun in the end.

Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.

One should read Borges more.