Nothing, you know, gives the body greater satisfaction than ordering people about, or at least believing in one's ability to do so.

Writer speaks a stench.

Time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant, straightforward life is not possible, then one must try to wriggle through by subtle manoeuvres.

For we are like tree trunks in the snow. In appearance they lie smoothly and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can't be done, for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only appearance.

Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.

Death confronts us not unlike the historical battle scene that hangs on the wall of the classroom. It is our task to obscure or quite obliterate the picture by our deeds while we are still in this world.

All I am is literature, and I am not able or willing to be anything else.