A Man

Don’t let yourself be regimented by dogma, by uniforms, by doctrines, don’t let yourselves be fooled by those who command you, by those who promise, who frighten, by those who want to replace one master with another, don’t be flock of sheep, for heaven’s sake, don’t hide under the umbrella of other people’s guilt, think with your own brains, remember that each of you is somebody, a valuable individual, a responsible, his own maker, defend your being, the kernel of all freedom, freedom is a duty, a duty even more than right

What's the point anyway — Of suffering, dying? It teaches us to live, boy. A man who does not struggle does not live, he survives.

Love isn’t putting chain on someone who wants to struggle and is ready to die for it, love is letting him die in the way he’s chosen.

If a man is a man and not a sheep in the flock, he has a survival instinct in him that leads him to fight even if he realizes he’s fighting in vain, even if he knows he will lose..

I’ll parade with those who are alone like me. They exist. They are very few, but they exist. I’ll find them.

But to deny fate is arrogance, to declare that we are the sole shapers of our existence is madness;if you deny fate life becomes the series of missed opportunities, a regret for what never was and could have been, a remorse of what was not done and could have been done, and the present is wasted, twisted into another missed oppurtunity.

I didn't want to kill a man. I'm not capable of killing a man. I wanted to kill a tyrant.

Il vero inquisitore è un uomo lugubre. Filosoficamente è il vero fascista, cioè il fascista privo di colore che serve tutti i fascismi, tutti i totalitarismi, tutti i regimi purché servano a mettere gli uomini in fila come croci in un cimitero. Lo trovi ovunque vi sia un’ideologia, un principio assoluto, una dottrina che proibisca all’individuo d’essere sé stesso.

Poi coloro che chiamavi rivoluzionari del cazzo, futuri seguaci dei fanatici, degli assassini che sparano revolverate in nome del proletariato e della classe operaia aggiungendo abusi agli abusi, infamie alle infamie, potere essi stessi. E guardali mentre alzano il pugno, gli ipocriti, con le loro barbette di falsi sovversivi, la loro grinta borghese di burocrati a venire, padroni a venire. Infine i preti, sintesi d’ogni potere presente e passato e futuro, di ogni prepotenza, di ogni dittatura. E guardali mentre si pavoneggiano nelle loro tonache oscure, coi loro simboli insensati, i loro turiboli d’incenso che annebbia gli occhi e la mente. In mezzo ad essi il Gran Sacerdote, il patriarca della chiesa ortodossa che ammantato di seta viola, grondante di ori e di collane, di croci preziose, zaffiri rubini smeraldi, salmodiava «Eonìa imì tu esù. Eterna sia la memoria di te»,