没有诗歌的民族如同没有星星的夜晚。

The writer is a spiritual anarchist, as in the depth of his soul every man is. He is discontented with everything and everybody. The writer is everybody's scapegoat and everybody's prophet.

A rich man's body is like a premium cotton pillow, white and soft and blank. Ours are different. My father's spine was a knotted rope, and the skin on his chest was so thin that you could see the ribs pressing out against it.