We all want to believe in impossible things, I suppose, to persuade ourselves that miracles can happen.

I wrote Report from the Interior was that after I finished Winter Journal, I took a pause, and I realized there was more I wanted to say.

We are all aliens to ourselves, and if we have any sense of who we are, it is only because we live inside the eyes of others.

The only person I knew how to be with now was myself - but I wasn´t really anyone, and I wasn´t really alive. I was just someone who pretended to be alive, a dead mean who spent his days translating a dead man´s book.

I'm in constant inner dialogue with my father still.

Solitary. But not in the sense of being alone. Not solitary in the way Thoreau was, for example, exiling himself in order to find out where he was; not solitary in the way Jonah was, praying for deliverance in the belly of the whale. Solitary in the sense of retreat. In the sense of not having to see himself, of not having to see himself being seen by anyone else.

Medical care for the entire country seems to me a basic right. If every other country in the West can do it, why can't we?