There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river -- leaves, insects, the feathers of birds -- is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.

I mean, the sound of an amplified guitar in a room full of people was so hypnotic and addictive to me, that I could cross any kind of border to get on there.

One can complain because rosebushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.

For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live.

Written By Theodor W. Adorno

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