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Prison is, indeed, a translation of your metaphysics, ethics, sense of history and whatnot into the compact terms of your daily deportment.

The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.

I existed in a world that never is - the prison of the mind.

I get a lot of letters from prisoners. They say things you can't imagine.

Prison works.

After one has been in prison, it is the small things that one appreciates: being able to take a walk whenever one wants, going into a shop and buying a newspaper, speaking or choosing to remain silent. The simple act of being able to control one's person.

Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.

One does not expect to be comfortable in prison. As a matter of fact, one's mental suffering is so much greater than any common physical distress that the latter is almost forgotten.

Language is froth on the surface of thought.

On some days in prison you might just need to get out of there, but on some days - not all days, but some - you might be able to see the sky and see the blue in it.