Language is so different from life. How am I supposed to fit the one into the other? How can I bring them together?

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

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

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

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.

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.