Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it's knowledge and questions.

Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn't clear ... was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.

What twisted people we are. How simple we seem, or at least pretend to be in front of others, and how twisted we are deep down. How paltry we are and how spectacularly we contort ourselves before our own eyes, and the eyes of others...And all for what? To hide what? To make people believe what?

Of what is lost, irretrievably lost, all I wish to recover is the daily availability of my writing, lines capable of grasping me by the hair and lifting me up when I'm at the end of my strength. (Significant, said the foreigner.) Odes to the human and the divine. Let my writing be like the verses of by Leopardi that Daniel Biga recited on a Nordic bridge to gird himself with courage.

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

Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.

Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it's knowledge and questions.