Try to be free: you will die of hunger.

Hungarian Language — savage it may be but of a beauty that has nothing human about it, with sonorities of another universe, powerful and corrosive, appropriate to prayer, to groans and to tears, risen out of hell to perpetuate its accent and its aura…words of nectar and cyanide.

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

Reality is a creation of our excesses.

In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

The only free mind is one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.

Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.