Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spiraling round for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and himself, infinitesimal, at the core of nothingness, and yet not nothing.

Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the move, and to know whither.

I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don't.

The goal is to know how not-to-know.

You can have your cake and eat it. But my God, it will go rotten inside you.

The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.

And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything As You Like It, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose and it's always daisy-time.