I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?

Our memory is childish and it saves only what we need.

The true enemy of man is generalization.

When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.

We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.