My flesh was burning where the skin was scraped off my knees, and I was afraid that I couldn't be alive anymore with so much pain, and at the same time I knew I was alive because it hurt. I was afraid that death would find its way into me through this open knee and I quickly covered my knee with my hands.

I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself using words. When I speak, I only pack myself a little differently.

If you live with death threats, you need friends. So you have to risk that they might spy on you.

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

In Romanian society, I am not particularly well-liked. I don't often receive invitations.

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

Some people speak and sing and walk and sit and sleep and silence their homesickness, for a long time, and to no avail. Some say that over time homesickness loses its specific content, that it starts to smolder and only then becomes all-consuming, because it’s no longer focused on a concrete home. I am one of the people who say that.