The evil of one murder is infinite, and my guilt is like my beauty - eternal. I cannot be forgiven, for there is no one to forgive me for all I've done.

I was in the black silence of a medieval street, and blindly I followed its sharp turns, comforted by the height of its narrow tenements, which seemed at any moment capable of falling together, closing this alleyway under indifferent stars like a seam.

How pathetic it is to describe these things which can't truly be described.

Heaven would be Hell in no time if every cruel, selfish, vicious soul went to Heaven.

I'm definitely more influenced by European writers than I am by American writers, there's no doubt about that.

Our language needs endless synonyms for beautiful; the eyes could see what the tongue cannot possibly describe.

It draws it's strength, this big secret, from the same root from which I draw my strength, both the good and the bad, because in the end, they cannot be separated.