A Book Is A Suicide Postponed.

A People Represents Not So Much An Aggregate Of Ideas And Theories As Of Obsessions.

There Is No Other World. Nor Even This One. What, Then, Is There? The Inner Smile Provoked In Us By The Patent Nonexistence Of Both.

Shame On The Man Who Goes To His Grave Escorted By The Miserable Hopes That Have Kept Him Alive.

One Doesn't Live In A Country, One Lives In A Language.

Intelligence Flourishes Only In The Ages When Belief Withers.