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

I wanted to get out of our thimble of a town, where every stone had eyes.

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

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.

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

Everyday brought me further away from other people, I had been placed out of the world's sight, as if in a cupboard, and I hoped it would stay that way. I developed a yearning for being alone, unkempt, untended.

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