Anything in literature, including memory, is second-hand.

Only the demented would not have raised their hands in the great hall. They had exchanged fear for insanity".

I wanted to get out of our thimble of a town, where every stone had eyes.

When we don't speak, said Edgar, we become unbearable, and when we do, we make fools of ourselves.

Once upon a time they had some bad luck, and they blame everything on that.

Writing itself does not know what it looks like while one is doing it, only when it's finished.

What can't be said can be written. Because writing is a silent act, a labor from the head to the hand.