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.

Torment, for some men, is a need, an appetite, and an accomplishment.

Boredom dismantles the mind, renders it superficial, out at the seams, saps it from within and dislocates it.

Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.

To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?

Humanity adores only those who cause it to perish.

Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.