I, who called love my hope for love.

I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.

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.

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

To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

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.

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