The only times she did speak was to say how impossible it was for her to express how boring and long it was, how interminable it was, to be Lol Stein. They asked her to try and pull herself together. She didn't understand why she should, she said. The difficulty she experienced in searching for a single word seemed insurmountable. She acted as though she expected nothing further from life.

Don’t be afraid anymore. Not of anyone. Not of anything. Nothing. Ever again. Listen to me: not ever again.

Writing was the only thing that populated my life and made it magic.

It's while it's being lived that life is immortal, while it's still alive. Immortality is not a matter of more or less time, its not really a question of immortality but of something else that remains unknown. It's as untrue to say it's without beginning or end as to say it begins and ends with the life of the spirit, since it partakes both of the spirit and of the pursuit of the void.

بقيتُ لأرى. لأرى كيف يكتسح الموت الذبابَ تدريجيًّا ، و كذا لأعرف من أين ينبعث هذا الموت. من الخارج ، من كثافة الجدار ، أم من الأرض. من أي ليلٍ يأتي ، من البسيطة أم من السماء ، من الغابات القريبة ، أم من عدمٍ لا اسمَ له ، قريب جدًّا ربما ، لعلّه آتٍ منّي أنا التي تحاول أن تعثر على الممرّات التي ستسلكها الذبابة لتعبر إلى الأزل