-
If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?
-
The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.
-
The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.
-
It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.
-
In our city spring came from the sky, not from the soil, which was ruled by stone that recognizes no seasonal change. The change of the season could be glimpsed in the thinning of clouds, the appearance of the birds and the occasional rainbow.
-
Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.
-
I had three choices: to conform to my own beliefs, which meant death; complete silence, which meant another kind of death; to pay a tribute, a bribe. I chose the third solution by writing The Long Winter.
-
Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.