Love, beauty, dignity: all that was only put on, so that whoever approached the glowing embers in reverence would not singe his grasping hands and thirsting lips. But wherever violence and annihilation tore away the protective covering, the undaunted heart was thrown into turmoil and could not rest until new costumes had formed, new threads has been spun, to make and raise up what was shameful and venerable.

Literature is the memory of humanity. Anyone who writes remember, and anyone who reads takes part in these expriences. Books can be reprinted. The fact is, there are archival copies of books. Not of people.

He had defended himself against death from without, and then it had carried him off from within.

I always knew that words are suitcases with false bottoms.