The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.

myself ... is merely an instrument to connect life and a myth

I love her for what she has dared to be, for her hardness, her cruelty, her egoism, her perverseness, her demoniac destructiveness. She would crush me to ashes without hesitation. She is a personality created to the limit. I worship her courage to hurt, and I am willing to be sacrificed to it. She will add the sum of me to her. She will be June plus all that I contain.

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

Warmth, perfume, rugs, soft lights, books. They do not appease me. I am aware of time passing, of all the world contains that I have not seen, of all the interesting people I have not met.

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.