The secret story is the one we'll never know, although we're living it from day to day, thinking we're alive, thinking we've got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn't matter.

Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wildflowers.

I'm an educated man, the prisons I know are subtle ones.

We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?

They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him.

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

For a moment the two of them looked at each other, wordless, as if they were asleep and their dreams had converged on common ground, a place where sound was alien.