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

A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.

You need not even listen, just wait...the world will offer itself freely to you, unmasking itself.

Humility provides everyone, even him who despairs in solitude, with the strongest relationship to his fellow man.

Every word first looks around in every direction before letting itself be written down by me.

If the literature we are reading does not wake us, why then do we read it? A literary work must be an ice-axe to break the sea frozen inside us.

Writing sustains me. But wouldn’t it be better to say it sustains this kind of life? Which doesn't mean life is any better when I don’t write. On the contrary, it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don’t write - which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.