...the meaning of my thoughts started to float away from me, like leaves that fall from a tree into a river, I was the tree, the world was the river.

People who want to find a place of rest, want to find an integrated personality, sense of self, want fewer fractures in their lives.

I love the idea of books being more than books, or being, rather, something other than books.

He was not such a special person. He loved to read very much, and also to write. He was a poet, and he exhibited me many of his poems. I remember many of them. They were silly, you could say, and about love. He was always in his room writing those things, and never with people. I used to tell him, What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little. But he was so stubborn. Or perhaps he was only timid.

It’s hard to say goodbye to the place you’ve lived. It can be as hard as saying goodbye to a person.

I observe, I write, I try not to remember the life that I didn't want to loose but lost and have to remember, being here fills my heart with so much joy, even if the joy isn't mine, and at the end of the day I fill the suitcase with old news.

The only thing more painful than being an active forgetter is to be an inert rememberer.