Nothing But Disaster Follows From Applause.

I Really Only Write About Inner Landscapes And Most People Don't See Them, Because They See Practically Nothing Within, Because They Think That Because It's Inside, It's Dark, And So They Don't See Anything. I Don't Think I've Ever Yet, In Any Of My Books, Described A Landscape. There's Really Nothing Of The Kind In Any Of Them. I Only Ever Write Concepts. And So I'm Always Referring To "mountains" Or "a City" Or "streets." But As To How They Look: I've Never Produced A Description Of A Landscape. That's Never Even Interested Me.

All My Life I Have Had The Utmost Admiration For Suicides. I Have Always Considered Them Superior To Me In Every Way.

Women Were Like Rivers, Their Banks Were Unreachable, The Night Often Rang With The Cries Of The Drowned.

I Would Be The Unhappiest Person Imaginable, Confronted Daily With Disastrous Works Crying Out With Errors, Imprecision, Carelessness, Amateurishness. I Avoided This Punishment By Destroying Them, I Thought, And Suddenly I Took Great Pleasure In The Word Destroying.

What Can You Do. You Get A Name, You're Called 'thomas Bernhard', And It Stays That Way For The Rest Of Your Life. And If At Some Point You Go For A Walk In The Woods, And Someone Takes A Photo Of You, Then For The Next Eighty Years You're Always Walking In The Woods. There's Nothing You Can Do About It.