I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.

Nature forms us for ourselves, not for others; to be, not to seem.

They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.

I want to do things so wild with you that I don't know how to say them.

I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.

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

I want to make my own discoveries…….penetrate the evil which attracts me