For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.

My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?

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

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.

I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

Living isn't courage, knowing that you're living, that's courage