I am a book I neither wrote nor read.

I got married the second time in the way that, when a murder is committed, crackpots turn up at the police station to confess the crime.

What was the freedom to which the adult human being rose in the morning, if each act was held back or inspired by the overpowering ghost of a little child?

All literature is an effort at the formal character of the epigram.

Literary Party: A traffic jam of the lost waiting for the ferry across the Styx.

At the moment I'm so exhausted that I feel like cutting my throat, so the next news masy well be that I am across the river and under the trees: what is the meaning and purpose of life? Death.

I always cause those who are near to me more suffering than pleasure.