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

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.

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

But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.

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