When I stop working the rest of the day is posthumous. I'm only really alive when I'm writing.

In human character, simplicity doesn't exist except among simpletons.

I try to work every day because you have no refuge but writing. When you're going through a period of unhappiness, a broken love affair, the death of someone you love, or some other disorder in your life, then you have no refuge but writing.

Things have a way of turning out so badly.

You said, 'They’re harmless dreamers and they’re loved by the people.' 'What,' I asked you, 'is harmless about a dreamer, and what,' I asked you, 'is harmless about the love of the people? Revolution only needs good dreamers who remember their dreams.

Show me a person who hasn´t known any sorrow and I´ll show you a superficial.

Is a lifetime long enough to hold the regret that I have for that fantastically aborted but crazily sweet love affair?