“Poverty makes you wise but it’s a curse.”

Firebugs dragging their gasoline bottles are approaching the Academy of Arts, with a grin. And so, instead of embracing them, let us demand the freedom of the elbow to knock the bottles out of their filthy hands.

If you join the rat race — you’re in the race of rats.

We attacked a foreign people and treated them like rebels. As you know, it’s all right to treat barbarians barbarically. It’s the desire to be barbaric that makes governments call their enemies barbarians.

Who struggles can fail. Who doesn’t struggle has already failed!

Even the most blockheaded bureaucrat, provided he loves peace, is a greater lover of the arts than any so-called art-lover who loves the arts of war.

Temptation to behave is terrible.

Here today we huddle tight As the darkest heathens might The snow falls chilly on our skin The snow is forcing its way in. Hush, snow, come in with us to dwell: We were thrown out by Heaven as well.

It is not enough to demand insight and informative images of reality from the theater. Our theater must stimulate a desire for understanding, a delight in changing reality.

What’s breaking into a bank compared with founding a bank?

The mobilization order is already written out. Every day, to earn my daily bread I go to the market where lies are bought Hopefully I take up my place among the sellers.

You may proclaim, good sirs, your fine philosophy But till you feed us, right and wrong can wait!

If you wan to steal money, don’t rob a bank – open one.

Impact lies in the vicinity of mistakes.

General, man is very useful. He can fly and he can kill. But he has one defect: He can think.

When the leaders speak of peace, the common folk know war is coming.

It is easier to rob by setting up a bank than by holding up a bank clerk.

The money pigs of capitalist democracy: Money has made slaves of us. Money is the curse of mankind. It smothers the seed of everything great and good. Every penny is sticky with sweat and blood.

Your soft heart is a blessing not a curse.

What a gentle curse: to still want you after all we’ve been.

You hurt and I bleed. What a curse to feel so deeply.

The curse turned to grace when the hurt turned to faith.

It’s a curse. I ask God to take this away from me all the time. I do not like being an artist.

That is the curse of immortality: to watch the world change, to see everything you know wither.

Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living.