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Quote by Natasa Alina Culea

“You see, the world is not enough satisfying for a writer. The world doesn’t fit the writer; the world’s design is for him like a straitjacket. The writer is a human, at least physically he looks like all other humans, but he is unsatisfied, gaunt and silent. He creates a world of his own, one to reflect all of him. He is getting rid of this world as a serpent gets rid of his skin. Between the covers of the book he plays God and molds humans of paper. And he is punishing them or creating them wings, as he considers. Some he kills with bare hands, not because they were bad people, but because they did bad things, and he leaves others to die by themselves. And then the writer realizes that revenge doesn’t exist, and that death is not a penalty, or if it is, is the same for everybody. Did God feel that way in the beginning of everything? Did the creation, the world, the water, the muse, the island, the sunrise, the stones came out of discontent? Out of an unbearable loneliness?”

Quote by Natasa Alina Culea

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Natasa Alina Culea

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“I don't mean to deny a feeling of solitude. It is there, reinforced by the fact that radio contact with the Earth abruptly cuts off at the instant I disappear behind the moon, I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. I am it. If a count were taken, the score would be three billion plus two over on the other side of the moon, and one plus God knows what on this side.”

“Sonuçta insanlara pazarlayabileceğim birkaç özelliği, birkaç kurumsal başarıyı, gene kağıt peçeteler gibi diyeceğim, üst üste koymuştum. Oysa gerçekte ben, bunalımdan bir türlü kurtulamayan, hiçbir düşünceye, inanca ya da insana bağlanamayan,sürekli huzursuz, karamsar ve yapayalnız biriydim. Yaşama coşkumu çoktan kaybetmiş, belki de hiç kazanamamıştım. Bana kalırsa kişisel tarihimin tek bir teması vardı; hayalkırıklığı.”

“What this means is that the lonelier a person gets, the less adept they become at navigating social currents. Loneliness grows around them, like mould or fur, a prophylactic that inhibits contact, no matter how badly contact is desired. Loneliness is accretive, extending and perpetuation itself. Once it becomes impacted, it is by no means easy to dislodge. This is why I was suddenly so hyper-alert to criticism, and why I felt so perpetually exposed hunching in on myself even as I walked anonymously through the streets, my flip-flops slapping on the ground.”