In The Taxi I Let My Hand

One Has No Talent. I Have No Talent. It's Just A Question Of Working, Of Being Willing To Put In The Time.

Insecurity Twists Meanings And Poisons Trust. In A Closely Beleaguered City Every Sentry Is A Potential Traitor.

You Needn't Be So Scared. Love Doesn't End. Just Because We Don't See Each Other.

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

What An Unbearable Creature He Must Have Been In Those Days--and Yet In Those Days He Had Been Comparatively Innocent. That Was Another Mystery: It Sometimes Seemed To Him That Venial Sins--impatience, An Unimportant Lie, Pride, A Neglected Opportunity--cut You Off From Grace More Completely Than The Worst Sins Of All. Then, In His Innocence, He Had Felt No Love For Anyone; Now In His Corruption He Had Learnt.