“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.”

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.

I don’t think of myself as an artist. I’m just a guy who can write.

Spend your money on the things money can buy. Spend your time on the things money can’t buy.

If you want to talk about something new, you have to make up a new kind of language.

I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.

No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories.

As we go through life, we gradually discover who we are, but the more we discover, the more we lose ourselves.

You can hide memories, but you can’t erase the history that produced them.

My priority is my books, at least at this point. What I have to do is write the narrative of this time.

Rain has the power to hypnotize.

If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.

Taking crazy things seriously is a serious waste of time.

If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.

Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Only assholes do that.

I don’t know how many good books I still have in me; I hope there are another four or five.