Irimiás: God is not made manifest in language, you dope. He's not manifest in anything. He doesn't exist... God was a mistake. I've long understood t… - László Krasznahorkai

He looked tired, exhausted even, but it was as if this were the specific thing that had exhausted him, not ordinary everyday matters but one single all-consuming care; it was obviously a fatigue born out of decades of vigilance, exhaustion owing to the knowledge that any moment he might be killed by that immeasurable weight of fat.

Brusc, simti un gust acru pe limba si crezu ca a sosit moartea. (...) era atent, zi de zi, la gustul mancarii, deoarece stia ca moartea se instaleaza mai intai supe, in carnuri, in pereti; mesteca indelung fiecare bucatica de mancare, inghitea incet apa sau, rar, vinul, iar uneori simtea o dorinta irezistibila sa rupa o bucata din tencuiala plina cu pete de salpetru de pe peretii din sala masinilor de la vechea casa a pompelor, unde locuia, si s-o guste, ca-n anomalia ce tulbura ordinea aromelor, gusturilor sa recunoasca Semnul, convins fiind ca moartea este doar un soi de atentionare, nicidecum o irevocabilitate disperata.

Everything was there, it is simply that there was no clerk capable of making an inventory of all the constituents; but the realm that existed once — once and once only — had disappeared for ever, ground into infinitesimal pieces by the endless momentum of chaos within which crystals of order survived, the chaos that consisted of an indifferent and unstoppable traffic between things. It ground the empire into carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and sulphur, it took its delicate fibres and unstitched them till they were dispersed and had ceased to exist, because they had been consumed by the force of some incomprehensibly distant edict, which must also consume this book, here, now, at the full stop, after the last word.