So what’s wrong if there happens to be one guy in the world who enjoys trying to understand you?

They put up with such strenuous training, and where did their thoughts, their hopes and dreams, disappear to? When people pass away, do their thoughts just vanish?

The best way to think about reality, I had decided, was to get as far away from it as possible.

Stories lie deep in our souls. Stories lie so deep at the bottom of our hearts that they can bring people together on the deepest level. When I write a novel, I go into such depths.

Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory. This really came home to me once I started writing fiction, that memory seemd a kind of fiction, or vice versa. Either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn't even there anymore... Warm with life, hopeless unstable.

Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment.

The better you were able to imagine what you wanted to imagine, the farther you could flee from reality.