I think isolation is one of the greatest problems, an ever-growing obstacle to political solidarity.

After all, when you take a walk you're after solitude, and if the solitude won't come to you, you must go to it.

Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.

Eroding solidarity paradoxically makes a society more susceptible to the construction of substitute collectives and fascisms of all kinds.

Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.

Literature that keeps employing new linguistic and formal modes of expression to draft a panorama of society as a whole while at the same time exposing it, tearing the masks from its face - for me that would be deserving of an award.

I cannot stand public attention, I just can't. Of course, if I may I might write something instead