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?

The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.

The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.

Probably all of us, writers and readers alike, set out into exile, or at least into a certain kind of exile, when we leave childhood behind...The immigrant, the nomad, the traveler, the sleepwalker all exist, but not the exile, since every writer becomes an exile simply by venturing into literature, and every reader becomes an exile simply by opening a book.

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.

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

You run risks. That's the plain truth. You run risks and, even in the most unlikely places, you are subject to destiny's whims.