Lifelessness is only a disguise behind which hide unknown forms of life.

How can one not succumb and allow one's courage to fail when everything is shut tight, when all meaningful things are walled up, and when you constantly knock against bricks, as against the walls of a prison?

My ideal goal is to "mature" into childhood. That would be genuine maturity.

Reality is as thin as paper and betrays with all its cracks its imitative character.

Ordinary facts are arranged within time, strung along its length as on a thread. There they have their antecedents and their consequences, which crowd tightly together and press hard one upon the other without any pause. This has its importance for any narrative, of which continuity and successiveness are the soul.

As we manipulate everyday words, we forget that they are fragments of ancient and eternal stories, that we are building our houses with broken pieces of sculptures and ruined statues of gods as the barbarians did.

Lifelessness is only a disguise behind which hide unknown forms of life.