first they came
for the communists
and i did not speak out
because i was not a communist

then they came
for the trade unionists
and i did not speak out
because i was not a trade unionist

then they came
for the Jews
and i did not speak out
because i was not a Jew

then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak for me

Because we don't think about future generations, they will never forget us.

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

When we say "War is over if you want it," we mean that if everyone demanded peace instead of another TV set, we'd have peace.

Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired (by passionate devotion to them) produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can peradventure read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity ... we cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance.

Who are they to judge us, simply because our hair is long?

Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.

All that I care to know is that a man is a human being - that is enough for me; he can't be any worse.

  ...I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.
     From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.  One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
     I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.  I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.