[...] no one likes to abandon a book they’re writing, you want to abide there, to be in that river forever. It was so beautiful to have found it, so unhoped-for, so grandiose. It’s not every day you find a book to write, a love affair to experience. In general, they’re things that elude you, you spend your time chasing after them, saddened to be exiled. [...]

[...] But after a while, doesn’t one feel something truer to life and more authentic establishing itself in your existence? Can a life without sorrow really be called a life?