“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.”

There’s no such thing as perfect writing, just like there’s no such thing as perfect despair.

People die all the time. Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if possible, sincerely.

Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that’s how we’ve got to live.

When I am writing, I do not distinguish between the natural and supernatural. Everything seems real.

Whenever I look at the ocean, I always want to talk to people, but when I’m talking to people, I always want to look at the ocean.

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

What happens when people open their hearts? They get better.

And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.

I’m a writer. I don’t support any war. That’s my principle.

No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself.

Whatever it is you’re seeking won’t come in the form you’re expecting.

I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you.

Life is not like water. Things in life don’t necessarily flow over the shortest possible route.

I had no ambition to be a writer because the books I read were too good, my standards were too high.

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions.

Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.