Book: Terre des Hommes (earth of humanity)

He knows the people caught up in the disaster, no longer afraid. Fear the unknown. But when people are faced with it face to face, it ceases to be unknown. Especially if you find it so calmly and seriously.

It's not that to shed tears over forever unhealed ulcer. Those who amazed can't feel it. The plague struck not the individual, it corrodes humanity. And I do not believe in pity. I'm taking care of the gardener. I'm not the kind of poverty - in the end people get used to poverty, as getting used to the idleness. In the East many generations live in the mud and not feel unhappy. What worries me, not to heal free soup for the poor. Not painful the ugliness of this shapeless, creased human clay. But each of these people may be murdered Mozart.

And now I think - ridiculous, absurd, but it seems to me, not knowing what to draw, I chose this direction just because it is saved in the Andes, my friend Guillaume, I've been looking for. I knew nothing about it, but it remained for me a direction to life.

We turn to the spell of the desert. And others, maybe will dig in her sand oil wells and get rich, trading her juices. But they were too late. Not available for palm groves and pristine dust shells gave us what was in them all more precious: they were given only one hour of delight, and that hour got us.

I was shocked by the not even his torment. In torment I don't believe. But with the death of every person dying unknown to the world, and I wondered what images it off?

So we have learned from oblivion, from incredible given the smallest details, which doesn't have a clue not a single geographer. After all, geography is only of the Ebro, whose waters quench the thirst of big cities. They don't really care to stream that hides in the grass to the West of Motril - breadwinner three dozen wildflowers.

Who among us does not know this hope is fading with every minute, it's the silence that becomes harder and harder, like a fatal disease.

I looked at the smooth forehead, plump soft lips, and thought: that's the face of the musician, that little Mozart, he is all - promise! He's just like the little Prince in the fairy tale, he would have to grow, warmed by the vigilant reasonable care, and it would justify the wildest hopes!
When in the garden, after a long search, finally will bring a new rose, all the gardeners come in waves. Rose separated from the other, on her vigilant care, groom and nurture. But people grow without a gardener. Little Mozart, as all fall under the same monstrous press. And will enjoy the infamous music base Kabakov. Mozart is doomed.

What gives meaning to life, gives meaning and death.

Victory goes to the one who rots last. And both of them are rotting away.

I don't care if he is a sincere, sensible there was high words, which may have brought you into the soul of someone from politicians. Once these seeds have taken root in your soul and make shoots, so they needed it.

In life every situation is a special world, its laws can be understood only from the inside.

Submit to each other the news. To call you, the lights scattered in the fields, perhaps others will respond.

But I told myself - if my wife believes that I'm alive, she believes that I go. Comrades believe that I'm going. They all believe in me. A scoundrel would I be if stop!