Writing for me is a dragnet that carries everything away with it: expressions and figures of speech, postures, feelings, thoughts, troubles. In short, the lives of others.

There was something unbearable in the things, in the people, in the buildings, in the streets that, only if you reinvented it all, as in a game, became acceptable. The essential, however, was to know how to play, and she and I, only she and I, knew how to do it.

At most, I may write when I am disturbed by something. I have recently discovered the pleasure of finding written answers to written questions.

I didn't choose anonymity.Instead, I chose absence.

Women, in all fields - whether mothers or not - still encounter an extraordinary number of obstacles. They have to hold too many things together and often sacrifice their aspirations in the name of affections.

Anonymity lets me concentrate exclusively on writing.

We lie in order to tolerate our existence and, most of all, we lie to ourselves.