That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

A sensation must have fallen very low to deign to turn into an idea.

As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

Illusion begets and sustains the world; we do not destroy one without destroying the other. Which is what I do every day. An apparently ineffectual operation, since I must begin all over again the next day.

As the years pass, the number of those we can communicate with diminishes. When there is no longer anyone to talk to, at last we will be as we were before stooping to a name.

If just once you were depressed for no reason, you have been so all your life without knowing.