Human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.

The novel is not a mirror of society, but a window into the human heart.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

我们都身处阴沟，但仍有人仰望星空。