Anything in literature, including memory, is second-hand.

In Romanian society, I am not particularly well-liked. I don't often receive invitations.

In this county, we had to walk, eat, sleep and love in fear.

Women always need other women to lean on. They become friends in order to hate each other better. The more they hate each other, the more inseparable they become.

When we don't speak, said Edgar, we become unbearable, and when we do, we make fools of ourselves.

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.

I wanted to get out of our thimble of a town, where every stone had eyes.

Only the demented would not have raised their hands in the great hall. They had exchanged fear for insanity.

Some people speak and sing and walk and sit and sleep and silence their homesickness, for a long time, and to no avail. Some say that over time homesickness loses its specific content, that it starts to smolder and only then becomes all-consuming, because it’s no longer focused on a concrete home. I am one of the people who say that.

If only the right person would have to leave, everyone else would be able to stay in the country.

Once upon a time they had some bad luck, and they blame everything on that.