If I waited for perfection... I would never write a word.

The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.

What breaks in daybreak? Is it the night? Is it the sun, cracked in two by the horizon like an egg, spilling out light?

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium.

I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.

A lot of the stuff Kafka said he thought was hilariously funny.

They seemed to be able to choose. We seemed to be able to choose, then. We were a society dying of too much choice.