In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.

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.

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

Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.

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.

It is because I dove into the abyss that I am beginning to love the abyss I am made of.

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