Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.

I, who called love my hope for love.

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?