The story of a poor man's life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.

It's amazing. The moment you show cash, everyone knows your language.

A man's past keeps growing, even when his future has come to a full stop.

I was looking for the key for years But the door was always open

The moment you recognize what is beautiful in this world, you stop being a slave

You can't expect a man in a dung heap to smell sweet.

Columbia University, where I went to study in 1993, insisted its undergraduates learn a foreign language, so I discovered French.

We are made mysteries to ourselves by the Rooster Coop we are locked in.

See, the poor dream all their lives of getting enough to eat and looking like the rich. And what do the rich dream of?? Losing weight and looking like the poor.

You ask 'Are you a man or a demon?' Neither, I say. I have woken up, and the rest of you are sleeping, and that is the only difference between us.

Neither you nor I speak English, but there are some things that can be said only in English.

...perhaps mankind must have a time of darkness so that we will one day again know what a blessing is the light.

The amount of control you have over somebody if you can monitor internet activity is amazing.

As I grew older, I realized that it was much better to insist on the genuine forms of nature, for simplicity is the greatest adornment of art.

Take heart! Many great things have been done by people in poor mental health.

Bloody Jackson - he can land it on a 20 cent piece. Trouble is, it's usually in a bloke's pocket in the grandstand.

It is natural for us to pay attention to North Korea and human rights issues of North Korean defectors but I wish people would not try to create stars. The reality is different from Hollywood movies.

Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master.

A boy sows a wild oat or two, the world winks. A girl does the same -- scandal.

When you educate a woman, you set her free. Had I not had books and education in Mississippi, I would have believed that's all there was.

The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.