Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.

At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.

Justice! Custodian of the world! But since the world errs, justice must be custodian of the world's errors.

Murderers, in general, are people who are consistent, people who are obsessed with one idea and nothing else.

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

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.

We know well enough when we're being unjust and despicable. but we don't restrain ourselves because we experience a certain pleasure, a primitive sort of satisfaction in moments like that.