“I realize that long hours of reading are not for every one but I have never ceased to be grateful that they are for me.”

“This was many years ago. The staircase wall on which I saw the rising glimmer of his candle has long since ceased to exist. In me, too, many things have been destroyed that I thought were bound to last forever and new ones have formed that have given birth to new sorrows and joys which I could not have foreseen then, just as the old ones have been difficult for me to understand. It was a very long time ago, too, that my father ceased to be able to say to Mama, “Go with the boy.” The possibility of such hours will never be reborn for me.”

“In the past, I used to think that it is fundamental and natural to have everything. But I realized that is not true. Instead I realized that those are things to be grateful for. After that realization, I became comfortable. Even if I don’t have it I am grateful. Such a realization also made me understand that is a way to love myself.”

“As for me, I longed to love as some people long to cry. I felt that every hour I slept now would be an hour stolen from life.”

“I have never experienced a sorrow that was not relieved by an hour of reading.”

“I never could read Foucault. I find philosophy tedious. All of my knowledge comes from reading novels and some history. I read Being and Nothingness and realized that I remembered absolutely nothing when I finished it. I used to go to the library every day and read every day for eight hours. I’d dropped out of high school and had to teach myself. I read Sartre without any background. I just forced myself and I learned nothing.”