When there's nothing to do, you do nothing slowly and intently.

Kafka is one of my very favorite writers. Kafka's fictional world is already so complete that trying to follow in his steps is not just pointless, but quite risky, too. What I see myself doing, rather, is writing novels where, in my own way, I dismantle the fictional world of Kafka that itself dismantled the existing novelistic system.

Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.

I contented myself with whiskey, for medicinal purposes. It helped numb my various aches and pains. Not that the alcohol actually reduced the pain; it just gave the pain a life of its own, apart from mine.

Something in her small eyes caught the sunlight and glistened, like a glacier on the faraway face of a mountain.

One foot in front of the other. Repeat as often as necessary to finish.

I realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.