I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents.

In the last camp they all ate grass, until the authorities forbade them to pull it up. They were accustomed to having the fruits of their little communal gardens stolen by the guards, after they had done all the work; but at the last camp everything was stolen.

Thousand got away to other countries; thousands returned to Spain tempted by false promises of kindness. By the tens of thousands, these Spaniards died of neglect in the concentration camps.

I only knew about daily life. It was said, well, it isn't everybody's daily life. That is why I started.

I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents.

Gradually I came to realize that people will more readily swallow lies than truth, as if the taste of lies was homey, appetizing: a habit.

Why do people talk of the horrors of old age? It's great. I feel like a fine old car with the parts gradually wearing out, but I'm not complaining,... Those who find growing old terrible are people who haven't done what they wanted with their lives.

After the desperate years of their own war, after six years of repression inside Spain and six years of horror in exile, these people remain intact in spirit. They are armed with a transcendent faith; they have never won, and yet they have never accepted defeat.

I didn't write. I just wandered about.

If I practised sex, out of moral conviction, that was one thing; but to enjoy it... seemed a defeat.

It is alleged that half a million Spanish men, women and children fled to France after the Franco victory.

But now that the guerrilla fighting is over, the Spaniards are again men without a country or families or homes or work, though everyone appreciates very much what they did.

I see mysteries and complications wherever I look, and I have never met a steadily logical person.

Between his eyes, there were four lines, the marks of such misery as children should never feel. He spoke with that wonderful whisky voice that so many Spanish children have, and he was a tough and entire little boy.

And though various organizations in America and England collected money and sent food parcels to these refugees, nothing was ever received by the Spanish.

The road passed through a curtain of pine forest and came out on a flat, rolling snow field. In this field the sprawled or bunched bodies of Germans lay thick, like some dark shapeless vegetable.

I followed the war wherever I could reach it.

Citizenship is a tough occupation which obliges the citizen to make his own informed opinion and stand by it.

Furthermore, they were constantly informed by all the camp authorities that they had been abandoned by the world: they were beggars and lucky to receive the daily soup of starvation.

There were ten concentration camps in France from 1939 on.

It would be a bitter cosmic joke if we destroy ourselves due to atrophy of the imagination.

Then somebody suggested I should write about the war, and I said I didn't know anything about the war. I did not understand anything about it. I didn't see how I could write it.

I found out about the Spanish war because I was in Germany when it began.

Journalism at its best and most effective is education. Apparently people would not learn for themselves, nor from others.

In November you begin to know how long the winter will be.

One of the most adventurous things left us is to go to bed. For no one can lay a hand on our dreams.

I have a toy giraffe on my bed. I've got photographs over my desk as well as a mask of a giraffe in my kitchen. I am totally hooked.

I was stuck at home in bed with me and got more and more involved with the Internet. I used it to keep in contact with friends and to make sure I was up to date with everything that was going on in the world.

This is the very womb and bed of enormity.

If kids like a picture book, they're going to read it at least 50 times. Read anything that often, and even minor imperfections start to feel like gravel in the bed.

The best thing about lying in bed late is that you learn to distinguish between first things and trivia, for whatever presses on you has to prove its importance before it makes you move.

I'm a 7 o'clock act. My people want to go to a show, a dinner and then go home and go to bed.

In so many interviews, they bring up the sexual aspect of the record. I've had some journalists say it sounds like I'm lying down in bed singing with a microphone. It gets so old!

Once, the parental bed collapsed because all the children sat on it at once.

I got sick and tired of my lady wearing ugly underwear to bed, so I turned to the Internet.

I miss Saturday morning, rolling out of bed, not shaving, getting into my car with my girls, driving to the supermarket, squeezing the fruit, getting my car washed, taking walks.

Theses officers were good friends, so it must have been a terrible argument, because the one who played chess with my father was so angry that he walked over to the dentist's house and got the dentist out of bed and shot him.

What happens when the guy who runs the reactor gets out of bed wrong or decides, for some reason, that he wants to override his instruction sheet some afternoon?

Mom and Dad would stay in bed on Sunday morning, but the kids would have to go to church.

I could be with a woman in a bed, for weeks even, and it would seem to me like three seconds. Or 300 years.

Well I was an asthmatic child. So that for most of my childhood I was in bed. Bedridden.

But for the first time in many years, I get to sleep in my own bed every night. I haven't done that, literally, in years. It seems like such a small thing, but it is so nice.

When I was playing I felt tired all the time. My recovery period was a lot longer than the other players. They'd be ok after an hour - I'd have to stay in bed till the next session.

Never get out of bed before noon.

This life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed with a desire to change his bed.

So I'm more at home with my backpack, sleeping in a hotel room or on a bus or on an airplane, than I am necessarily on a bed. It's weird being here. It feels like I'm standing next to my real life.

Evil is unspectacular and always human, and shares our bed and eats at our own table.

A woman should say: "Have I made him happy? Is he satisfied? Does he love me more than he loved me before? Is he likely to go to bed with another woman?" If he does, then it's the wife's fault because she is not trying to make him happy.

Marriage is like life - it is a field of battle, not a bed of roses.