In any man who dies there dies with him his first snow and kiss and fight... Not people die but worlds die in them.

He watched through a crack inside just pretending to be dead he wanted to fix each pallbearer in his memory . . . it seems to me a telephone was installed in the coffin to someone yet again Stalin is sending his instructions.

Unfortunately justice is the train that's nearly always late.

Character begins to form at the first pinch of anxiety about ourselves.

In any man who dies there dies with him his first snow and kiss and fight... Not people die but worlds die in them.

Envy is an insult to oneself.

To partly remain a child: that is to be really mature.