Writing eases my suffering . . . writing is my way of reaffirming my own existence.

I don't want to be a strong hero who can save society. I just want to save myself.

Love is so holy, so confusing. It makes a man anxious, tormented. Love, how can I define it?

Dreams are more real than reality itself, they're closer to the self.

For me, writing [was] a question of survival...I could not trust anyone, even my family. The atmosphere was so poisoned. People even in your own family could turn you in.

Observing humans and observing oneself yields a clear-minded starting point for literature.

It's in literature that true life can be found. It's under the mask of fiction that you can tell the truth.