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.

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

Writing itself does not know what it looks like while one is doing it, only when it's finished.

Suffering doesn't improve human beings, does it?

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.

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