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

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

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.

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.

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

Who can take a single step with his head?

I'm always telling myself I don't have many feelings. Even when something does affect me I'm only moderately moved. I almost never cry. It's not that I'm stronger than the ones with teary eyes, I'm weaker. They have courage. When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing. I'm more of a coward. The difference is minimal though, I just use my strength not to cry. When I do allow myself a feeling, I take the part that hurts and bandage it up with a story that doesn't cry, that doesn't dwell on homesickness.