A human face is molded over a long time. The soul is slowly traced on it. But the war quickly created its image of people. Painted its own portraits.

I was happy … I was happy that I wasn't able to hate.

More than once afterward I met with these two truths that live in the same human being: one's own truth driven underground, and the common one, filled with the spirit of the time.

What keeps us from remembering ? The unbearableness of the memories ...

I believe that in each of us there is a small piece of history. In one half a page, in another two or three. Together we write the book of time. We each call out our own truth. The nightmare of nuances.

No one listened to us! No one listened to the scientists and the doctors. They pulled science and medicine into politics. Of course they did!

The history of the atom -- it's not just a military secret and a curse. It's also our youth, our era, our religion.

Pretty soon, I'll be decomposing into phosphorous, calcium, and so on. Who else will you find to tell you the truth? All that's left are the archives. Pieces of paper. And the truth is... I worked at an archive myself, I can tell you first hand: paper lies even more than people do.

Yo tengo miedo. Tengo miedo de una cosa, de que en nuestra vida el miedo ocupe el lugar del amor.