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.

Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again.

I have decided not to oppose anyone ever again, since I have noticed that I always end by resembling my latest enemy.

Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.

What is pity but the vice of kindness.

To exist is equivalent to an act of faith, a protest against the truth, an interminable prayer. As soon as they consent to live, the unbeliever and the man of faith are fundamentally the same, since both have made the only decision that defines a being.