“A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.”

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

Someday, somewhere – anywhere, unfailingly, you’ll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?

Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.

Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.

Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us.

The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.

Give me silence, water, hope. Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.

Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.

Life-transforming ideas have always come to me through books.

It’s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.

Her eyes are my favorite book to read.

Words mean more than we mean to express when we use them: so a whole book ought to mean a great deal more than the writer meant.

There is no great book than the elders of the home.

Help! Mom! There Are Liberals Under My Bed’ is the title of the book.

What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burned me. Now they are content with burning my books.

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries.