Like tired dogs they stand there, because they use up all their strength in remaining upright in one's memory.

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

Don Quixote's misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.

What am I doing here in this endless winter?

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous bug.

"Don't you want to join us?" I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. "No, I don't," I said.

By imposing too great a responsibility, or rather, all responsibility, on yourself, you crush yourself.