The danger of motherhood. you relive your early self, through the eyes of your mother.

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

What does it mean to be born? After we die, will it be the same thing as it was before we were born? Or a different kind of nothingness? Because there might be knowledge then. Memory.

Most people who are writers go through periods when they can't write.

you're an insomniac, you tell yourself: there are profound truths revealed only to the insomniac by night like those phosphorescent minerals veined and glimmering in the dark but coarse and ordinary otherwise; you have to examine such minerals in the absence of light to discover their beauty, you tell yourself.

the art of reading hardly differs from the art of writing, in that its most intense pleasures and pains must remains private, and cannot be communicated to others.

One of life's minor satisfactions is forgetting.