The second half of the twentieth century is a complete flop.
We write not only for children but also for their parents. They, too, are serious children.
But my gloom did not lessen. I knew that I'd had a bad dream, and I stood in the dark trying to recollect it. The second I closed my eyes, I was with the dead. They did things words cannot express. They spoke madness. ("Hanka")
The pessimism of the creative person is not decadence but a mighty passion for the redemption of man.
Every body resisted (the slaughterer) in its own fashion, tried to escape and seemed to argue with the Creator to its last breath.
The genuine writer cannot ignore the fact that the family is losing its spiritual foundation.
They still believe in God, the family, angels, witches, goblins, logic, clarity, punctuation, and other obsolete stuff.
As much as I can give of myself I give of myself. There's no reason why not. And when I have to hide something, I let the character speak.
I don't invent characters because the Almightly has already invented millions... Just like experts at fingerprints do not create fingerprints but learn how to read them.
The ghetto was not only a place of refuge for a persecuted minority but a great experiment in peace, in self-discipline and in humanism. As such it still exists and refuses to give up in spite of all the brutality that surrounds it. I was brought up among those people.
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