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

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

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.

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

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

Suffering doesn't improve human beings, does it?

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