I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.
Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.
To think is an act. To feel is a fact.
Brazil is where I have to be, where I have my roots.
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.
I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.