If you are going to say something new, you need to feel the centuries of tradition inside you. If a button is pushed at some power plant, the light flickers in the city’s windows. So, too, in literature, if a word is written, it reverberates in all the existing books, regardless of whether you’ve read them or not.

Having your loved ones near you is the only important thing, and everything else has little meaning.

Since everyone can’t be happy anyway, whoever can be happy right now, should. You have to be happy today, right now, no matter what. Someone said there can’t be a heaven if there’s a hell. Supposedly it’s impossible to be in heaven if you know suffering exists somewhere. Nonsense. True enjoyment of life can only be felt if you’ve known suffering.

You know, the only important thing is that there was a person for whom you were the most important being in the world. Everything else is inconsequential.

There’s a threshold of pain, a person loses consciousness in order not to die. And there’s a threshold of grief, it suddenly stops hurting. And you feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Pentru mine era evident, cea mai veche arheosubstanță era cerneala.

Înțelegi , Sașa , am trăit într-un fel de înstrăinare față de viață. Între mine și lume, ca un gard, s-au ridicat literele.

Numai că arca mea nu este din lemn,ci din cuvinte.

Și moartea ta e un dar. Mori de dragul lor.

Omul nu poate trai fara mangaiere si aceasta este mereu insuficienta si va fi mereu insuficienta, pentru ca nevoia de mangaiere este mereu mai mare decat orice mangaiere.