What is the use trying to describe the flowing of a river at any one moment, and then at the next moment, and then at the next, and the next, and the next? You wear out. You say: There is a great river, and it flows through this land, and we have named it History.

Dead anarchists make martyrs, you know, and keep living for centuries. But absent ones can be forgotten.

Belief is the wound that knowledge heals.

This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.

Belief in the lie is the life of the lie.

In the airport, luggage-laden people rush hither and yon through endless corridors, like souls to each of whom the devil has furnished a different, inaccurate map of the escape route from hell.

When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow.