[b]Herta Müller
To combat death you don’t need much of a life, just one that isn’t yet finished.[/b]
Not that it can be any other way.
No cities can grow in a dictatorship, because everything stays small when it’s being watched.
Back then maybe.
Only the demented would not have raised their hands in the great hall. They had exchanged fear for insanity.
Not that this actually worked of course.
Hey, not while I’m at my devotions, not so fast, the fat man said, inside the shithouse you’re communing with God, and outside you find that all hell’s broken loose.
The shithouse conundrum.
All of that piles on you so that, sooner or later, you cannot bear it anymore. And in that situation I started to write, because there was no other ways for me to express, except through the vicious cycle of words.
He thought: That’s me here.
We laughed a lot, to hide it from each other. But fear always finds an out. If you control your face, it slips into your voice. If you manage to keep a grip on your face and your voice, as if they were dead wood, it will slip out through your fingers. It will pass through your skin and lie there. You can see it lying around on objects close by.
Let’s pin down where it is here.