Now abideth beauty, truth, and intensity; but the greatest of these is intensity.

I think that if writers don't speak about real life, it's because they don't know it.

it’s true this world our breathing laboured inspires nothing more than obvious disgust a desire to flee without our share and no longer read the headlines we long to return to our ancestral home where our forebears once lived under an angel’s wing we long to find that strange morality which sanctified life to the end we crave something like loyalty like the embrace of mild addictions something that transcends yet contains life we cannot live far from eternity

It's a curious idea to reproduce when you don't even like life.

Anything can happen in life, especially nothing.

To the end, I will remain a child of Europe, of worry and of shame. I have no message of hope to deliver. For the West, I do not feel hatred. At most I feel a great contempt. I know only that every single one of us reeks of selfishness, masochism and death. We have created a system in which it has simply become impossible to live, and what's more, we continue to export it.

When a country is strong... it accepts any dose of pessimism from its writers.