If one takes the path of success, then one ends up either successful or unsuccessful, there is no

third alternative.

I read somewhere; while God still existed one sustained a dialogue with God, and now that He no longer
exists one has to sustain a dialogue with other people, I guess, or, better still, with oneself, that is to say,
one talks or mumbles to oneself.

I do what I have to do, although I dont know why I have to.

I am still here, although I dont know why; accidentally, I guess, as I was born; I am as much or as little
accomplice to my staying alive as I was to my birth.

Man is always a little at fault, thats all.

I stayed alive therefore I am.

At any rate I found myself writing because I had to write, although I didnt know why.

For me this is a fact, writing is necessity, I dont know why, but it seems it was the only solution offered to
me, even if it doesnt solve anything; still it doesn't leave me

What we usually mean by fate is what we least understand, that is to say, ourselves, that subversive,
unknown individual constantly plotting against us, whom , estranged and alienated but still bowing with
disgust before his might, we call, for the of simplicity, fate.

To live and to write, it's all the same, both together, for the pen is my spade; when I look ahead I only
look back, when I stare at the paper I only see the past: she crossed that bluish green carpet as if she
were crossing the sea because she wanted to talk to me, for she found out that I was "B.", author and
literary translator, one of whose "works" had read, and which she definitely wanted to discuss with me, she
said, and we talked and talked until we talked ourselves into bed Good God! and continued to talk
even then, uninterrupted.

"Auschwitz cannot be explained." And yet, it doesnt take a Wittgenstein to notice that the sentence is
faulty even from the point of pure linguistic logic;

I live and occasionally I look up at the glorious air or the clouds into which I keep digging my grave
with my pen, diligently, like a forced laborer, whom they order every day to dig deeper with his
spade

The sentence "Auschwitz cannot be explained" is faulty simply from a formal point of view, for anything
that is has an explanation, even if by necessity a merely self-serving faulty, so so explanation.

By way of that wretched sentence "Auschwitz cannot be explained" is the wretched author explaining that
we should be silent concerning Auschwitz, that Auschwitz doesnt exist, or, rather, that it didnt, for the only
facts that cannot be explained are those that dont or didnt exist.

... mert ami valban irracionlis, az nem a rossz, ellenkezleg: a j.

On the other hand, what is really irrational and what truly cannot be explained is not evil but,
contrarily, the good.

Failure alone remains as the one single accomplishable experience;

The world is not our imagination but our nightmare, full of inconceivable surprises.

Nothing upsets me as much as a shop window jammed full of objects; such windows literally depress,
sadden, even demoralize me.

My body is foreign to me that body that sustains me and will, ultimately, kill me.

Cognitively we dont know and will never discover what occasions the cause of our existence, we dont
know the purpose of our existence and we dont know why we have to disappear from here once we have
been placed here, I dont know, why I have to live this fragmentary existence, which happened to be my
lot, instead of a life that perhaps does exist somewhere. Why did I get this lot? This sex, this body, this
awareness, this geographic setting, this fate, this language, this history, this rented room?

I have felt that some sort of awful shame is attached to my name and that I have somehow brought this
shame along from somewhere I have never been, and that I have carried this sin as my sin even though I
have never committed it; this sin pursues me all my life, which life is undoubtedly not my own even thought
I live it , I suffer from it die of it.

"No" I could never be another persons father, fate, god,

"No" it should never happen to another child, what happened to me; my childhood. (Auschwitz).

How can we do justice even when it concerns truth itself, since for me only one truth exists, my
truth, even if it is a delusion, yes, my delusion; my delusion.

Auschwitz, I told her, appears to me in the image of a father; yes, the two terms, Auschwitz, and father,
resonate the same echoes in me, and if the observation is that God is an exalted father, then God, too is
revealed to me in the image of Auschwitz.

[edit]Liquidation

(2003)

Felszmols (2003)

Let us call our man, the hero of this story, Kingbitter. We imagine a man, and a name to go
with him. Or conversely, let us imagine the name, and the man to go with it.

For Kingbitter the Hamlet question did not run To be or not to be? but Am I or am I not?

Boredom. He takes it with him everywhere, like an angry shaggy terrier that he sets on others
from time to time.

You just sit here and tolerate it, the same way everything in this country is tolerated. Every
deception, every lie, every bullet in the brains. Just as you are already tolerating bullets in the
brains that will be implemented only after the bullet is put in your brains.

The state is always the same. The only reason it financed literature up till now was in order to
liquidate it. Giving state support to literature is the state's sneaky way for the state liquidation
of literature.

He himself had said near enough exactly what was in the play. The only snag was that by the
time that scene was played out in reality, almost word for word, the person who had written the
play, and that scene in it, was no longer alive.
He had committed suicide.

Thereafter, the scenes had succeeded one another, turn and turn about, in the drama as in
reality, to the point that, in the end, Kingbitter did not know what to admire more: the author'shis dead friend's-crystal-clear foresight or his own, so to say, remorseful determination to
identify with his prescribed role and stick to the story.
Nowadays, though, with the lapse of nine years, Kingbitter was interested in something else. His
story had reached an end, but he himself was still here, posing a problem for which he more and
more put off finding a solution. He would either have to carry on his story, which had proved
impossible, or else start a new story, which had proved equally impossible.Kingbitter
undoubtedly could see solutions to hand, both better ones and worse; indeed, if he reflected
more deeply, solutions were all he could see, rather than lives.

The rgime was overthrown, and I'm not going to pretend it was me who overthrew it. A
general liquidation is in full swing, and I'm not going to join in. I've become a spectator. And I'm
not even spectating from the front rows in the stalls but from somewhere up in the
gods. Maybe I'm worn out, but it could be that I never truly believed in what I believed. That
would be the unseemlier alternative, because then they would have smashed my ear in for no
reason at all. That is the assumption I'm inclining to these days. (He breaks off and ponders,
book in hand.) I did time for no reason, dragged the millstone of a police record around for no
reason, was on probation for years for no reason, and I'm no hero, I merely botched up my life.

Everyone here makes a botch of his life. That's the local specialty, the genius loci. Anyone who
doesn't botch up his life here simply has no talent.

He liked the style, that wry gallows humor armed with the semblance of omniscience; a most
serviceable style it was, the dialect of the initiated, protecting them from their disillusionments,
their fears, their well-concealed childish hopes.

True, he had been living a lively interior life today: he had dreamed something, he had awoken
with an erection, and while shaving he had been dogged by a feeling that today he needed to
decide, though he could not see clearly what it was he needed to decide, besides which he was
all too aware of his own inability to make any decisions.

Despite that, the thought did cross Kingbitter's mind that he ought to do something about
finding a theater to do the play, the comedy (or tragedy?) "Liquidation."
He was now in the ninth year of considering that.
Indeed, Kingbitter was now in the ninth year of considering whether he was handling the literary
estate with due diligence.

Man, when reduced to nothing, or in other words a survivor, is not tragic but comic, because
he has no fate.

Survivors represent a separate species, just like an animal species. We are all survivors, that is
what determines our perverse and degenerate mental world. Auschwitz.

Only from our stories can we discover that our stories have come to an end, otherwise we
would go on living as if there were still something for us to continue (our stories, for example);
that is, we would go on living in error.

Writers complete their works, whether those be thousands of pages long or just a few laconic
lines.

Good can be done in a life in which Evil is the life principle, but only at the cost of the doers
sacrificing his life.

If youre a revolutionary, you shouldnt have started a family.

I had gotten into the habit of sleeping late because I had started to see that this was the only
sensible way I could kill time.

But I believe in writing nothing else; just writing. Man may live like a worm, but he writes
like a god. There was a time when that secret was known, but now it has been forgotten; the
world is composed of disintegrating fragments, an incoherent dark chaos, sustained by writing
alone. If you have a concept of the world, if you have not yet forgotten all that has happened,
that you have a world at all, it is writing that has created that for you, and ceaselessly goes on
creating it; Logos, the invisible spiders thread that holds our lives together.

Writers sometimes cast themselves into the most profound depths of despair in order to
master it and move on.

A persons true means of expression is his life. Living the shame of life and maintaining silence,
that was the greatest accomplishment of all.

That evening he talked about Leonardo and Michelangelo. It is impossible to place them in the
human world, he said. It is impossible to comprehend how anything that attests to greatness
has survived; it is obviously a result of innumerable chance events and of human
incomprehension, he said. If people had understood the greatness of those works, they would
have destroyed them long ago. Fortunately, people have lost their flair for greatness and only

their flair for murder has persisted, though undoubtedly they have refined the latter, their flair
for murder, to an art, almost to point of greatness, he said.

Detective Story (2008)

Anyone who wants something else is Jewish.

Theres just one revolution that I can take seriously, and thats a police revolution.

p. 13

p. 15

I exist. Is this a life still? No, just vegetating. It seems that only one philosophy can succeed the
philosophy of existentialism: nonexistentialism, the philosophy of nonexistent existence.

p. 30

Nonexistence. The society of the nonexistent. In the street yesterday a nonexistent person trod on my foot
with his nonexistent foot.

p. 30

I took a stroll in the city. It was infernally hot. The usual evening hubbub around me. Lovers on the
pavements, hurrying to cinemas and other places of amusement as if nothing had happened, nothing.
Living their nonexistent lives. Or do they exit, and its me who doesnt.

Of course, living is another way of killing oneself: its drawback is that it takes so horribly long.

p. 31

p. 35

I am sick of atrocities, though these are now the natural order of our world. And I would still like to
act!

Talking is not enough; words dont clarify anything. Ill have to hit upon something, but what?

p. 37

p. 49

"But there are times when being happy just happy, nothing else is simply vile."
"Why?" Jill inquired.
"Because," Enrique reasoned, "one cant be happy in a place where everybody is unhappy."

p. 55

"You mustnt forget about your future, Enrique."

"Im living for the present, Dad."
"Ah!" he waved that aside. "The present is just temporary."

 I boiled up. "I know," I burst out. It only has to be accepted temporarily temporarily, but every day
afresh. And every day ever more. Temporarily. Until we have lived to the end of our temporary
lives, and one fine day we temporarily die.

p. 66

If a person resolves to fight, he ought to know what he is fighting for. Otherwise it makes no
sense. A person usually fights against a power in order to gain power himself. Or else because the power
in question is threatening his life.

p. 69

There was truth in Diazs logic, yes: our line of work is like that. Once you have started, the only way
back is to go forward.

p. 91