Night, the astonishing, the stranger to all that is human, over the mountain-tops mournful and gleaming draws on. It was as though I stood at the topmost point of the earth, where the glittering winter sky is forever unchanging; as though the heath were rigid with frost, and adders, vipers and lizards of transparent ice lay slumbering in their hollows in the sand.

W.G. Sebald

W.G. Sebald

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Our concern with history is a concern with preformed images already imprinted on our brains, images at which we keep staring while the truth lies elsewhere, away from it all, somewhere as yet undiscovered.

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It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.

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To set one's name to a work gives no one a title to be remembered, for who knows how many of the best of men have gone without a trace?

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Places seem to me to have some kind of memory, in that they activate memory in those who look at them.

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Comparing oneself with one's fellow writers is a bad idea. I would not review a fellow writer unless I had something terribly positive to say.

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