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If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?
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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.
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Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.
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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.
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Can one move an empire as if it were a house?
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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.
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Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.
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It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.