Writing [is] a form of prayer.

A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.

He thought back on his family with deep emotion and love. His conviction that he would have to disappear was, if possible, even firmer than his sister's. He remained in this state of empty and peaceful reflection until the tower clock struck three in the morning. He still saw that outside the window everything was beginning to grow light. Then, without his consent, his head sank down to the floor, and from his nostrils streamed his last weak breath.

All language is but a poor translation.

It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go.

The tremendous world I have inside my head. But how free myself and free it without being torn to pieces. And a thousand times rather be torn to pieces than retain it in me or bury it. That, indeed, is why I am here, that is quite clear to me.

This noble body, equipped with everything necessary, almost to the point of bursting, also appeared to carry freedom around with it.