Writing itself does not know what it looks like while one is doing it, only when it's 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 wanted to get out of our thimble of a town, where every stone had eyes.

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.

Some people speak and sing and walk and sit and sleep and silence their homesickness, for a long time, and to no avail. Some say that over time homesickness loses its specific content, that it starts to smolder and only then becomes all-consuming, because it’s no longer focused on a concrete home. I am one of the people who say that.

Once upon a time they had some bad luck, and they blame everything on that.

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.