I write in the night, but I see not only the tyranny. If that were all I saw, I would probably not have the courage to continue. I see people sleeping, stirring, getting up to drink water, whispering their projects or fears, cooking something while the rest of the family is asleep.
I see pastry cooks in Tehran, and the shepherds, thought of as bandits, sleeping beside their sheep in Sardinia, I see a man in the Friedrichshain quarter of Berlin sitting in his pajamas with a bottle of beer reading Heidegger and he has hands of a proletarian. I see a small boat of illegal immigrants off the Spanish coast near Alicante. I see a mother in Mali, her name is Aya, which means Born on Friday--swaying her baby to sleep, I see the ruins of Kabul and a man going home, and I know that, despite the pain, the ingenuity of the survivors in undiminished, an ingenuity that scavenges and collects energy, and in the ceaseless cunning of this ingenuity, there is a spiritual value, something that I am convinced of it at night, although I don't know why.
Without money each daily human need becomes a pain.
I write in the night. In war, the dark is on nobody's side, in love the dark confirms that we are together.