Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and moving on.

No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.

However much I have frequented the mystics, deep down I have always sided with the Devil; unable to equal him in power, I have tried to be worthy of him, at least, in insolence, acrimony, arbitrariness and caprice.

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.

No human beings more dangerous than those who have suffered for a belief: the great persecutors are recruited from the martyrs not quite beheaded. Far from diminishing the appetite for power, suffering exasperates it.