The Externals Are Simply So Many Props;

Sometimes I Try My Hand At Turning Out Small Profundities And Uncertain Short Stories, But I Always End Up With Just One Single Word: God.

Sometimes I Feel That Every Word Spoken And Every Gesture Made Merely Serve To Exacerbate Misunderstandings. Then What I Would Really Like Is To Escape Into A Great Silence And Impose That Silence On Everyone Else.

Everything Is Chance, Or Nothing Is Chance. If I Believed The First, I Would Be Unable To Live On, But I Am Not Yet Fully Convinced Of The Second.

I Keep Remembering From My Early Student Days How I Would Walk At Night Through The Streets, My Hands Bunched Into Fists In The Pocket Of My Coat, My Head Hunched Deep Into My Collar, And How I Used To Say, 'i Want To Work, I Shall Work'--and Then I Would Come Back Home And Be So Exhausted By My Determination That I Had No Strength Left To Do The Actual Work.

All Disasters Stem From Us. Why Is There A War? Perhaps Because Now And Then I Might Be Inclined To Snap At My Neighbour. Because I And My Neighbour And Everyone Else Do Not Have Enough Love. Yet We Could Fight War And All Its Excrescences By Releasing Each Day, The Love Which Is Shackled Inside Us, And Giving It A Chance To Live.