There weren’t any curtains in the windows, and the books that didn’t fit into the bookshelf lay piled on the floor like a bunch of intellectual refugees.
Precipitate as weather, she appeared from somewhere, then evaporated, leaving only memory.
What we seek is some kind of compensation for what we put up with.
Whiskey, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation. You gaze first, then it’s time to drink.
The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.
The light of morning decomposes everything.
Not just beautiful, though – the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me.
Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe.
Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven’t seen in a long time.
Chance encounters are what keep us going.
No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories.
I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.
Even castles in the sky can do with a fresh coat of paint.
If you’re in pitch blackness, all you can do is sit tight until your eyes get used to the dark.
I’ve always done whatever I felt like doing in life. People may try to stop me, and convince me I’m wrong, but I won’t change.
I’m often asked what I think about as I run. Usually the people who ask this have never run long distances themselves. I always ponder the question. What exactly do I think about when I’m running? I don’t have a clue.
I don’t know – maybe the world has two different kinds of people, and for one kind the world is this completely logical, rice pudding place, and for the other it’s all hit-or-miss macaroni gratin.
I didn’t have much to say to anybody but kept to myself and my books. With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw it’s fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy.
When I wake up, my pillow’s cold and damp with tears. But tears for what? I have no idea.
The most important thing we learn at school is the fact that the most important things can’t be learned at school.