Only a humanity to whom death has become as indifferent as its members, that has itself died, can inflict it administratively on innumerable people.
For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live.
The hardest hit, as everywhere, are those who have no choice.
Exuberant health is always as such sickness also.
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The art of living… is neither careless drifting on the one hand, nor fearful clinging to the past on the other. It consists in being sensitive to each moment, in regarding it as utterly new and unique, in having the mind open and wholly receptive.