It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves.

All novels are about certain minorities: the individual is a minority.

Everywhere I've turned somebody has wanted to sacrifice me for my own good—only /they/ were the ones who benefited. And now we start on the old sacrificial merry-go-round. At what point do we stop?

Injustice wears ever the same harsh face wherever it shows itself.

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?

And I knew that it was better to live out one's absurdity than to die for that of others.

The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead.