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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.