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.

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

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

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.

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.