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

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.

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

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

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.

Who can take a single step with his head?

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