Let's enjoy the aimless days while we still can.

In a crisis the true facts are whatever other people say they are.

Every advance in knowledge and technique is matched by a new kind of death, a new strain. Death adapts, like a viral agent.

I don't consider myself paranoid at all. I think I see things exactly as they are.

I understand there are some men who are only half here. Let's not say men. Let's say people. People who are more or less obscure at times.

All human existence is a trick of light.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?