I can imagine the writers of China, England and France, crippled and unsure of themselves when they feel that the ghosts of Confucius, Mencius, Chaucer and Shakespeare and Victor Hugo are looking over their shoulders.

I can't understand Urdu, Bahasa or Russian, but when the Pakistani Faiz, the Indonesian Rendra and the Russian Rosdentvensky declaim, I can feel the living throb of rhythm and music, the warmth and passion of their poetry, as do the hundreds, not a mere roomful, of poetry lovers in the audience.

I write entirely in English; Tagalog chauvinists chide me for this. I feel no guilt in doing so. But I am sad that I cannot write in my native Ilokano. History demanded this; if it isn't English I am using now, I would most probably be writing in Spanish like Rizal, or even German or Japanese.

Tabahlah saat menghadapi penderitaan besar,
Sabarlah saat menghadapi penderitaan kecil,
Dan kalau anda sudah melaksanakan dengan giat tugas anda sehari-hari,
Pergilah tidur dengan damai.
Tuhan selalu berjaga.

La pensée est le labeur de l’intelligence, la rêverie en est la volupté.

N'être pas écouté, n'est pas une raison pour se taire.