In a sense, I'm the one who ruined me: I did it myself.

I'm going to take you out of here ... I'm going to take you home, to the world where you belong, where cats with bent tails live, and there are little backyards, and alarm clocks ring in the morning.

It is my huge pleasure that my novels are translated into languages that are read among small numbers of people.

In a place far away from anyone or anywhere, I drifted off for a moment.

Life might just be an absurd, even crude, chain of events and nothing more.

Sometimes I find it too hot to run, and sometimes too cold. Or too cloudy. But I still go running. I know that if I didn't go running, I wouldn't go the next day either. It's not in human nature to take unnecessary burdens upon oneself, so one's body soon becomes disaccustomed. It mustn't do that. It's the same with writing. I write every day so that my mind doesn't become disaccustomed.

Say it before you run out of time. Say it before it's too late. Say what you're feeling. Waiting is a mistake.