We are all deep in a hell each moment of which is a miracle.

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.

Our place is somewhere between being and nonbeing - between two fictions.

All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.

My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.

By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

My mission is to suffer for all those who suffer without knowing it. I must pay for them, expiate their unconsciousness, their luck to be ignorant of how unhappy they are.