Everything that can be said with words can be contradicted with words, so what’s the point of dissertations, novels, literature? Or put another way: … - Karl Ove Knausgård

Until I moved to Stockhold I had felt there was a continuity to my life, as if it stretched unbroken from childhood up to the present, held together by new connections, in a complex and ingenious pattern in which every phenomenon I saw was capable of evoking a memory which unleashed small landslides of feeling in me, some with a known source, others without. The people I encountered came from towns I had been to, they knew other people I had met, it was a network, and it was a tight mesh. But when I moved to Stockholm this flaring up of memories became rarer and rarer, and one day it ceased altogether. That is, I could still remember; what happened was that the memories no longer stirred anything in me. No longing, no wish to return, nothing. Just the memory, and a barely perceptible hint of an aversion to anything that was connected with it.

If you are afraid of the dark, you seek the light. But what do you do when even the light is filled with terrors?

The problem is not so much that the world limits your imagination as your imagination limits the world.