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The months of which I am about to write are probably amongst the most painful in my whole life; I interrupted my work on the book for a long time trying to summon up the courage to embark on this…
The shtetl, lost here among Polish fields and groves, might be called Turek or Przasnysz, Konin or Maków, yet what one remembers is not the name but the old marketplace reeking of tar and dung where a…
You, my dear, will survive me and remember.
How could it be otherwise?
—From a letter
Old people? What can you write about old people?
They barely feel anything!
—From a conversation