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

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.

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.

And one's wandering proved as sterile and pointless as the excitement produced by a close study of pornographic albums.

Under the imaginary table that separates me from my readers, don’t we secretly clasp each other’s hands?

The days hardened with cold and boredom like last year's loaves of bread. One began to cut them with blunt knives without appetite, with a lazy indifference.

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