I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.

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

Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.

I do not want to see BP nickel and diming these businesses that are having a tough time.

What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?

Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.

Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.