I stand on the end platform of the tram and am completely unsure of my footing in this world, in this town, in my family. Not even casually could I indicate any claims that I might rightly advance in any direction. I have not even any defense to offer for standing on this platform, holding on to this strap, letting myself be carried along by this tram, nor for the people who give way to the tram or walk quietly along or stand gazing into shop windows. Nobody asks me to put up a defense, indeed, but that is irrelevant.

Writing is a deeper sleep than death. Just as one wouldn't pull a corpse from its grave, I can't be dragged from my desk at night.

He who does not answer the questions has passed the test.

Sometimes I think I can expiate all my past and future sins through the aching of my bones.

I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.

There is a goal but no way; what we call the way is mere wavering.

There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.