The more one forgets one’s own self, the more human the person becomes.

Usually, to be sure, man considers only the stubble field of transitoriness and overlooks the full granaries of the past, wherein he had salvaged once and for all his deeds, his joys and also his sufferings. Nothing can be undone, and nothing can be done away with. I should say having been is the surest kind of being.

Ever more people today have the means to live, but no meaning to live for.

When a person can’t find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.

The point is not what we expect from life, but rather what life expects from us.

In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.

One evening, when we were already resting on the floor of our hut, dead tired, soup bowls in hand, a fellow prisoner rushed in and asked us to run out to the assembly grounds and see the wonderful sunset. Standing outside we saw sinister clouds glowing in the west and the whole sky alive with clouds of ever-changing shapes and colors, from steel blue to blood red. The desolate grey mud huts provided a sharp contrast, while the puddles on the muddy ground reflected the glowing sky. Then, after minutes of moving silence, one prisoner said to another, "How beautiful the world could be.