Aleksandar Hemon

But then, who would ever care about any of it, no one cares about light and what it does to the soul, not here in this city behind God’s back.

He’s dreaming, Osman whispered. So am I, Pinto said.

Who was it that made the house for birds, who fed them? Who taught the baby storks to open their beaks for a frog? Who singled out the poor weasel? Who taught man to open his mouth and speak? Who put the chatter of voices into Pinto’s head, and everywhere outside it, and why do the voices and the words never stop? You cannot fathom my rules.

I don’t just want to be alive, I want to live with you. Other than that, I have no reason to be alive. I am a nothing and a nobody. I don’t care about anything or anyone else.

You cannot fathom my rules. You go to sleep in one world, wake up in another.

everything that lived wanted to keep living, at least until the sun did not rise one morning, or the Lord decided to exterminate every living creature, or maybe just get rid of me and everyone I love

Each and every one of us has a thousand demons at his left, and ten thousand demons at his right. What are we to do with those demons?

God, full of mercy, come on, kill me, or save me. I cannot fathom your rules.

God was invented by the lonely people, by those who could not bear to think that no one would ever care about them, spend a thought on their loneliness. We are not chosen, what we are is terribly lonely and unloved

I am not your father. Osman was your father. And we are both dead