Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.
In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.
To exist is a habit I do not despair of acquiring.
If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.
We are all geniuses when we dream.
The universal view melts things into a blur.