she acquired the certainty of the expansion of time by depth of emotion, range and infinite multiplicity of experience.

All those who try to unveil the mysteries always have tragic lives. At the end they are always punished.

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.

destruction is ultimately self-destruction.

The suppression of inner patterns in favor of patterns created by society is dangerous to us.

I sat there for three hours and did not feel the time or the boredom of our talk and its foolish disconnection. As long as I could hear his voice, I was quite lost, quite blind, quite outside my own self.

We love best those who are, or act for us, a self we do not wish to be or act out.