There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.

When a man publishes a book, there are so many stupid things said that he declares he'll never do it again. The praise is almost always worse than the criticism.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

Everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.

You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.

The eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.

If I can write everything out plainly, perhaps I will myself understand better what has happened.