Defeat begins with the fear that one has lost.

Work seemed something fundamental for man, something which enabled him to endure the aimless flight of time.

The minute you begin to have doubts, the floor under your feet starts to shake.

A tower of illusion, all of it, made of illusory bricks and full of holes. If life were made up only of imporant things, it really would be a dangerous house of glass, scarcely to be handled carelessly. But everyday life was exactly like the headlines. And so everybody, knowing the meaninglessness of existence, sets the centre of his compass at his own home.

Mankind, which has always been a part of nature, has reached a point where it is too much for nature to accommodate.

Many people ask why a writer commits suicide. But I think that people who ask don't know the vanity and the nothingness of writing. I think it is very usual and natural for a writer to commit suicide, because in order to keep on writing he must be a very strong person.

Do you shovel to survive, or survive to shovel?