Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.

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

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 hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.

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

Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.