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.

He lies like a book. And he reads a lot of books.

you have often seen in the cinema, erich, haven't you, that between extraordinary people extraordinary things like for example extraordinary love can arise. so we only have to be extraordinary and see what happens.

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

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

Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.

It could draw from a greater reservoir of freedom. The irony could develop an even greater ease.