Time reminds everybody of death, but who goes around day and night talking about it? Was this the source of that strange anxiety which sometimes comes over us, without our knowing why? Like some strange sister of joy, it was a tremor of fear, of ending, of all that begins and passes away. Was this the source of that odd loneliness we feel even when we aren't alone. and which is akin to stardust?

To look good in defeat is the ultimate a person can want.

There are some things we run after and it turns out that we run in vain. Then there are things we don't pursue, and those are the things that escape us.

To kill and caress. Or simply kill, so you're not always bothered by something or somebody. So it is to be killed or to kill.

Hunger and cold were like two walls with no room for anything else in between but loneliness, in which a man is a stranger even to himself.

There was some need, some attraction that drew him closer to the German boy whose life he'd save, just to lose his own. But it was life that connected them, because it was death at the same time. It couldn't be put into words, it was intangible, but it was as complete as everything in life is; it was what connected birds and people or a grain of dust and the stars. It was strong because it was so weak and weak because it was so strong.

The hope killed them," said the old man. "It killed the very best of them. And hopelessness straightened out the very best of us.

We lived a decent and beautiful life," the old man said. "Maybe it's our innocence that irritates those who hate us so much and makes them kill us and burn us and hang us. It was a magnificent life because we lived in peace with ourselves. But we were always in the minority.