I would still like to have that luxury, to be able to just sit and draw for hours and hours and hours. In a way, that's what I do as a writer.

I didn't fear failure. I expected failure.

how can the world in all its chaos come up with so many coincidences, so many similarities and exact opposites?

I think books were my salvation, they saved me from being miserable.

That is the way it is with a wound. The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

We are living in a world where everything is false. The society is like bright paint applied on top of rotten wood.

Can you imagine how it is, to want to be neither inside nor outside, to want to be nowhere and disappear?