All of us are mad. If it weren't for the fact that every one of us is slightly abnormal, there wouldn't be any point in giving each person a separate name.

Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid.

It's perfectly obvious that somebody's responsible and somebody's innocent. Otherwise it [justice] makes no sense at all.

Behind everything we feel, there is always a sense of fear.

Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.

Sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. Nature does not grant it any functions.

At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist.