I am not preoccupied with the characteristics of my works...

I am not preoccupied with the characteristics of my works or my person, insofar as it is related to my works; that is, I am not preoccupied with anything personal. If I can speak about anyone’s defencelessness, it is not mine, but that of those who are very far from being able to formulate this sense of defencelessness. If you feel that I am an outsider in any sense, this obviously comes from the fact that my heroes, or rather, the constant object of my train of thought, The One Who Is Always the Same Person, is indeed outside society, because my gaze works in such a way that I can see him and only him in a mass of people, it is only his eyes that meet mine, only his, whose glance betrays that no social force or fear or instinct can keep him inside—he is the expelled son, the one who was thrown away.

Someone who scolds the world constantly and with such volcanic force as Bernhard may easily deceive us, but it gradually turns out what it is all about. Bernhard appreciated greatness, genius, the power of thought and the creative triumphs of the human spirit. He appreciated and adored them. Bernhard was an enthusiast. That is why he hated whatever was not great, whatever was not a work of genius. 

My books are for those who read them. Therefore the fact that I intend them for anyone at all is not so important. However, those that I ‘intend’ my books for are all kinds of people, but they are definitely not aristocratic, definitely not part of the social elite, you can take my word for that. On the contrary, those I have been thinking of are far from being chosen ones, but exactly the opposite: they are those who will not be chosen but rather expelled, because they are injured, defenceless, oversensitive; they are those who drop out of the great Stirring Machine at the first turn. Perhaps you could reformulate this by saying that those we are talking about are the elite of the injured, the aristocracy of those who are helpless beyond recovery… This sounds different, doesn’t it? And as for me offering my works to them—I would rather say that they are The Ones Who Are Always the Same Person, the constant subjects of my thinking. I am immensely grateful to them. Without them, readers would not even understand what I am doing. Without them, it would not occur to me to write anything. They are there partly, at least in a tiny fragment, in all of my readers. 

Krasznahorkai, interviewed