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

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

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.

I have always written only for myself - to clarify things, to clarify things with myself, to understand in an inner way what is actually happening.

Who can take a single step with his head?

What can be said about chronic hunger. Perhaps that there's a hunger that can make you sick with hunger. That it comes in addition to the hunger you already feel. That there is a hunger which is always new, which grows insatiably, which pounces on the never-ending old hunger that already took such effort to tame. How can you face the world if all you can say about yourself is that you're hungry.

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