What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.

He who hates himself is not humble.

I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.

You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.

Freedom can be manifested only in the void of beliefs, in the absence of axioms, and only where the laws have no more authority than a hypothesis.

I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.