His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.

When I am most deeply rooted, I feel the wildest desire to uproot myself.

The city was asleep on its right side and shaking with violent nightmares. Long puffs of snoring came out of the chimneys. Its feet were sticking out because the clouds did not cover it altogether. There was a hole in them and the white feathers were falling out. The city had untied all its bridges like so many buttons to feel at ease. Wherever there was a lamplight the city scratched itself until it went out.

There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.

We efface an hour by passionate love, without twists, without aftertaste. When it is finished, it is not finished, we lie still in each other's arms lulled by our love, by tenderness -- sensuality in which the whole being can participate.

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.

I cannot concentrate all my friendship on any single one of my friends because no one is complete enough in himself.