Wisdom disguises our wounds; it teaches us how to bleed in secret.

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.

Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.

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.

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?