How lovely this world is, really: one simply has to look.

Childhood is the province of the imagination and when I immerse myself in it, I re-create it as it was, as it could have been, as I wanted - and didn't want - it to be.

You don't have to understand why anything that has happened nor do you even have to understand what it is that has happened. You have only to live with the remains.

Language is the instrument in all cases and can language be trusted?If it were not for language, could we lie?

It's a taboo subject. How the dead are betrayed by the living. We who are living--we who have survived--understand that our guilt is what links us to the dead. At all times we can hear them calling to us, a growing incredulity in their voices, You will not forget me -- will you? How can you forget me? I have no one but you.

Only in love is there trust - even the possibility of trust.

Strange: how when a light is extinguished, it's immediately as if it has never been. Darkness fills in again, complete.