Jealousy is a dog's bark which attracts thieves.

When I don't make any progress, it is because I have bumped into the wall of language. Then I draw back with a bloody head. And would like to go on.

One's need for loneliness is not satisfied if one sits at a table alone. There must be empty chairs as well.

Progress, under whose feet the grass mourns and the forest turns into paper from which newspaper plants grow, has subordinated the purpose of life to the means of subsistence and turned us into the nuts and bolts for our tools.

A journalist is stimulated by a deadline. He writes worse when he has time

Family life is an encroachment on private life.

Imagination has the right to feast in the shade of the tree that it turns into a forest.