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.

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

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

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.

You should know that there is little you can seek in this world, that there is no need for you to be so greedy, in the end all you can achieve are memories, hazy, intangible, dreamlike memories which are impossible to articulate. When you try to relate them, there are only sentences, the dregs left from the filter of linguistic structures.

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

Reality is myself, reality is only the perception of this instant and it can't be related to another person.