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.

If only the right person would have to leave, everyone else would be able to stay in the country.

To combat death you don't need much of a life, just one that isn't yet finished.

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.

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.