Llorarlo es lanzar un puñado de vida a los ojos de la muerte. Sabes que sólo la cegará durante unos instantes, pero te alivia.

…In the end, there’s no sort of difference between dying from ignorance and dying under the feet of thousands of men who have regained their freedom. You close your eyes, and then there’s nothing anymore....

Why did I, like thousands of others, have to carry a cross I hadn’t chosen, a cross which was not made for my shoulders and which didn’t concern me? Who decided to come rummaging around...

It’s always been difficult for me to speak and express my innermost thoughts. I prefer to write. When I sit down and write, words grow very docile, they come and feed out of my hand...

Oh little Poupchette, some may tell you that you are nobody’s child, a child of defilement, a child begotten in fear and horror. Some may tell you that you are a child of abomination conceived...

Saintliness is very odd. When people encounter it, they often take it for something else, something completely unlike it: indifference, mockery, scheming, coldness, insolence, perhaps even contempt. But they’re mistaken, and that makes them furious....