“And it is a great thing to die in your own bed, though it is better still to die in your boots.”

“Always eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or bed- no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters in your skull.”

“There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.”

“One wants to live, of course, indeed one only stays alive by virtue of the fear of death, but I think, as I thought then, that it is better to die violently and not too old.”

“Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. ”

“the mute protest in your own bones”

“To die hating them, that was freedom.”