The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.

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

Even great men are only truly recognized and honored once they are dead. Why? Because those who praise them need to feel themselves somehow superior to the person praised, they need to feel they are making some concession.

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.

The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.

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

How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?