Writing is a deeper sleep than death. Just as one wouldn't pull a corpse from its grave, I can't be dragged from my desk at night.

We all have wings, but they have not been of any avail to us and if we could tear them off, we would do so.

Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate... but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins.

Now I can look at you in peace; I don't eat you any more.

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

Kill me, or you are a murderer.

People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.