Why do we complain about the Fall? It is not on its account that we were expelled from Paradise, but on account of the Tree of Life, lest we might eat of it.

It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.

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

My peers, lately, have found companionship through means of intoxication - it makes them sociable. I, however, cannot force myself to use drugs to cheat on my loneliness - it is all that I have - and when the drugs and alcohol dissipate, will be all that my peers have as well.

In a way, I was safe writing

The Kafka paradox: art depends on truth, but truth, being indivisable, cannot know itself: to tell the truth is to lie. thus the writer is the truth, and yet when he speakes he lies.

A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul.