You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.
To devastate by language, to blow up the word and with it the world.
Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
Tyrants are always assassinated too late. That is their great excuse.
The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.