To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.

Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.

I have this weird obsession about buying books and looking at them with a smile, even if I won't read them soon. At least they are mine now.

I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

In New York the acoustics are good for laughter, for life is all external, all action, no thought, no meditation, no dreaming, no reflection, only the exuberance of action.

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