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The best way to killing a rose is to force it open when it is still only the promise of a bud.

It’s is the old who age a day every hour,

The only time we can talk about death is while we’re alive, not afterwards.

Time is a master of ceremonies who always ends up putting us in our rightful place, we advance, stop and retreat according to his orders, our mistake lies in imagination that we can catch him out.

There comes a point when the confused or abused person hears a voice saying in his head, Oh well, might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and, depending on the particular situation in which he finds him he either spends his last bit of money on a lottery ticket, or places on the gaming table the watch he inherited from his father and silver cigarette case that was a gift from his mother, or bets everything he has on red even though he knows that red has come up five times in a row,

Lord knows why they depict death with wings when death is everywhere.

Age carries with it a double load of guilt,

Don’t quibble with the king over pears, let him eat the ripe ones and give you the green ones.

The day before is what we bring to the day we're actually living through, life is a matter of carrying along all those days-before just as someone might carry stones, and when we can no longer cope with the load, the work is done.

Every thing in life is a uniform; the only time our bodies are truly in civilian dress is when we’re naked.

Creating is always so much more stimulating than destroying.

Words were not given to man in order to conceal his thoughts.