There is a goal but no way; what we call the way is mere wavering.

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

Beyond a certain point there is no return. This point has to be reached.

This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.

Each of us has his own way of emerging from the underworld, mine is by writing. That's why the only way I can keep going, if at all, is by writing, not through rest and sleep. I am far more likely to achieve peace of mind through writing than the capacity to write through peace.

One tells as few lies as possible only by telling as few lies as possible, and not by having the least possible opportunity to do so.

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