Facts sometimes have a strange and bizarre power that makes their inherent truth seem unbelievable.

Facts do not convey truth. That's a mistake. Facts create norms, but truth creates illumination.

All of a sudden it's twelve-year-olds who are contacting me, fifteen-year-olds, and they have very, very fascinating questions. However, they speak in a language of their age group which I have to learn first.

I'm not a citizen of America, I cannot vote. But it is fascinating because there's a new kind of protagonist out there that we didn't expect. By the way, I'm not in any panic at all.

Of course, as a German, I wouldn't like to tell the American people how to handle their criminal justice.

I think it is a quest of literature throughout the ages to describe the human condition.

Meanwhile it's got stormy, the tattered fog even thicker, chasing across my path. Three people are sitting in a glassy tourist cafe between clouds and clouds, protected by glass from all sides. Since I don't see any waiters, it crosses my mind that corpses have been sitting there for weeks, statuesque. All this time the cafe has been unattended, for sure. Just how long have they been sitting here, petrified like this?