Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.

If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.

I have all the defects of other people yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.

My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.

A book is a suicide postponed.

I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.