I could not understand how people could not like something as beautiful as the aerodrome. But I had lately become convinced that in general people were pretty boring. They liked to moan for hours on end about how hard it was to make ends meet, about the money they owed, the price of food, and other similar worries, but the minute some more brilliant or attractive subject come up, they were struck deaf.

The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.

The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.

It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.

Who in the world has not yearned for a loved one, has never said, If only he or she could come back just once, just one more time...? Despite the fact that it can never happen, never ever. Surely this is the saddest thing about our mortal world, and its sadness will go on shrouding human life like a blanket of fog until its final extinction.

Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.

Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.