Silence is also a form of speaking.

I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself using words. When I speak, I only pack myself a little differently.

I'm always telling myself I don't have many feelings. Even when something does affect me I'm only moderately moved. I almost never cry. It's not that I'm stronger than the ones with teary eyes, I'm weaker. They have courage. When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing. I'm more of a coward. The difference is minimal though, I just use my strength not to cry. When I do allow myself a feeling, I take the part that hurts and bandage it up with a story that doesn't cry, that doesn't dwell on homesickness.

In der Fabrik hing oben am Giebel, der am höchsten in den Himmel und am tiefsten in den Hof schaute, eine Losung:
Proletarier aller Länder vereinigt euch.
Und unten auf dem Boden gingen Schuhe, die das Land nur in der Flucht verlassen durften.

Before the war an apple tree had stood behind the church. It was an apple tree that ate its own apples.

At a time I used to think that in a world without guards people would walk differently from the way we do in our country. Where people are allowed to think and write differently, I thought, they will also walk differently.