A writer should not run around with a mirror for his countrymen; he should tell his society and his times things no one ever thought before.

I had no hope. Yet expectation lived on in me, the last thing she had left behind. What further consummations, mockeries, torments did I still anticipate? I had no idea as I abided in the unshaken belief that the time of cruel wonders was not yet over.

I do not like the way people use the more and more magnificent fruits of technology to their filthy deeds.

If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

The whole plan hinged upon the natural curiosity of potatoes.

The age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that Finis vitae sed non amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny.

A man who for an entire week does nothing but hit himself over the head has little reason to be proud.