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

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.

I work only with lost and founds.

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

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.

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

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