Have you ever or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage, or in terrorist activities, or genocide? I think we can put a big yes down for all of the above.
What is the purpose of history? It seeds only hate. All the history books should be burnt, so that we are no longer the peoples of our lands, but merely peoples…
We all die. We don’t have to live our lives fearing it.
Until you have not been free, you cannot understand what freedom means.
The first two tracks were pop songs from the 1970s, sung in Danish in a style that was best described as Abba without joy.
Wow, that is so deep.’He meant it, of course.’You’re really real,’ he added breathily. ‘Say something else.’I decided he wasn’t worth punching, and walked away.
And certainly I know I have the capacity within me to be all of that again, to feel all of that again, and know that, while the door may be currently locked, there is a black pit in the bottom of my soul that has no limit to its falling.
Words are made by history, we build them and they change meaning through time, but the music they play…
Forgive me,” I wrote at the bottom. “I did not think I would break.
You must choose the life you live at the time you live it.
There is no loss, if you cannot remember what you have lost.
[We] need people who are kind by instinct, not by effort. But that is what we lack in this time. For progress, we have eaten our souls up, and nothing matters anymore.
Dr August, there is no greater isolation a man may experience than to be lonely in a crowd. He may nod, and smile, and say the right thing, but even by this pretence his soul is pushed further away from the kinship of men.
The secret to being unafraid of the darkness is to challenge the darkness to fear you, to raise your eyes sharp to those few souls who stagger by, daring them to believe that you are not, in fact, more frightening than they are.
Is there innocence in ignorance? And if there is, do we tolerate other for their innocence’s sake?
There is no greater isolation a man may experience than to be lonely in a crowd.
Time, it transpires, is not so good at telling after all.
After a night of drinking, she would be a pale, starling-sized creature, but now, in this place, she is moonlight in heels.
For a second, my hand touched yours, but that second is gone, and cannot be seen, heard or felt ever again. This second is gone, too, the moment in which I spoke by your side. It is dead. Let it die.