The writer is the duelist who never fights at the stated hour, who gathers up an insult, like another curious object, a collector's item, spreads it out on his desk later, and then engages in a duel with it verbally. Some people call it weakness. I call it postponement. What is weakness in the man becomes a quality in the writer. For he preserves, collects what will explode later in his work. That is why the writer is the loneliest man in the world; because he lives, fights, dies, is reborn always alone; all his roles are played behind a curtain. In life he is an incongruous figure.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.

Houses turn to corpses overnight when we cease to live and love in them.

I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life.

Ordinary life does not interest me.

Will you come down and kiss me good night?

I can elect something I love and absorb myself in it.