At a time I used to think that in a world without guards people would walk differently from the way we do in our country. Where people are allowed to think and write differently, I thought, they will also walk differently.
Boredom is fear’s patience. Fear doesn’t want to exaggerate. Only on occasion–and fear considers this very important–does it want to know how things stand with me.
Today the grass listens when I speak of love. It seems to me that this word isn’t honest even with itself.
How do you have to live, I wondered, to be in harmony with what you honestly think?
I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself using words. When I speak, I only pack myself a little differently.
Jesus sleeps on the cross by the church door. When he wakes up, he’ll be old. The air in the village will be brighter than his naked skin.
Everyday brought me further away from other people, I had been placed out of the world’s sight, as if in a cupboard, and I hoped it would stay that way. I developed a yearning for being alone, unkempt, untended.
He’s looking into the night, in case a shadow comes to listen and look.
To combat death you don’t need much of a life, just one that isn’t yet finished.
Windisch closes his eyes. He feels his eyes. He feels his eyeballs in his hands. His eyes without a face.
I was all too aware that there’s an unspoken law that you should never start to cry if you have too many reasons to do so. I told myself that my tears were due tot he cold, and I believed myself.