One always dies too soon or too late. And yet, life is there, finished: the line is drawn, and it must all be added up. You are nothing other than your life.

There is no salvation anywhere. The idea of salvation implies the idea of an absolute.

Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?

That is exactly the writer's problem. What does literature stand for in a hungry world?

My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think… and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment - it's frightful - if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire.

We make our own hell out of the people around us.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.