Nothing is as deceptive as a photograph.

I am always trying to convey something that can’t be conveyed, to explain something which is inexplicable, to tell about something I have in my bones, something which can be expressed only in the bones.

Hiding places there are innumerable, escape is only one, but possibilities of escape, again, are as many as hiding places.

This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.

One must not cheat anyone, not even the world of its victory.

Even the merest gesture is holy if it is filled with faith.

Writer speaks a stench.