Desire renders life like a poem: it collapses space and time, it calls into focus images, sensations, new voices and forms of seeing and saying something.
The film cannot be said to be interested in persuading anybody of anything.
The thing about surveillance, there's a lot of boredom in it. This was part of the attraction, I think, to becoming detectives.
If you have one hour and you write for that whole hour, suddenly there is a book or at least part of a book, and when you have part of a book, you can always finish it.
His resistance to canned models exposes the fragility of the sclerotic aesthetic order that reigned in his time.
There’s a good case to be made that this is the least translatable German book of the last century.
Perhaps the literary community needs a lot more of the absurd, even in spades, and perhaps especially in relation to economics.
You're a man now, I'm your blanket.
The dragon named communism, the final boss of history.
From this angle, it’s almost as if the narrative itself—an ethereal ghost story and a cautionary tale about land grabs—is inconsequential to the book’s real currency: its paradoxically prominent underappreciation.
Queering the relationship between form and genre, troubling the notion of what makes a novel, working through questions of queerness and bodies and desire and space and language on the page.