Even so, there were times I saw freshness and beauty. I could smell the air, and I really loved rock 'n' roll. Tears were warm, and girls were beautiful, like dreams. I liked movie theaters, the darkness and intimacy, and I liked the deep, sad summer nights.

I probably still haven’t completely adapted to the world. I don’t know, I feel like this isn’t the real world. The people, the scene: they just don’t seem real to me.

No matter what form the relationship might take, he was the only person she could picture sharing her life with.

I have read all my novels that were translated into English. Reading my novels is enjoyable because I forget almost all the content in them.

Silence. How long it lasted, I couldn't tell. It might have been five seconds, it might have been a minute. Time wasn't fixed. It wavered, stretched, shrank. Or was it me that wavered, stretched, and shrank in the silence? I was warped in the folds of time, like a reflection in a fun house mirror.

Sometimes when I think of life, I feel like a piece of driftwood washed up on shore.

No matter how long you stand there examining yourself naked before a mirror, you'll never see reflected what's inside.