A translation in verse . . . seems to me something absurd, impossible.

To live a life which is a perpetual falsehood is to suffer unknown tortures.

The pupil dilates in darkness and in the end finds light, just as the soul dilates in misfortune and in the end finds God.

So your desire is to do nothing? Well, you shall not have a week, a day, an hour, free from oppression. You shall not be able to lift anything without agony. Every passing minute will make your muscles crack. What is feather to others will be a rock to you. The simplest things will become difficult. Life will become monstrous about you. To come, to go, to breathe, will be so many terrible tasks for you. Your lungs will feel like a hundred-pound weight.

Whom man kills, him God restoreth to life.

It is man's consolation that the future is to be a sunrise instead of a sunset.

Love would never be a promise of a rose garden unless it is showered with light of faith, water of sincerity and air of passion. Sometimes we make love with our eyes. Sometimes we make love with our hands. Sometimes we make love with our bodies. Always we make love with our hearts. If I could reach up and hold a star for every time you've made me smile, the entire evening sky would be in the palm of my hand. To love another person is to see the face of God.