An existence transfigured by failure.

True contact between beings is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.

What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.

We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.

The only free mind is one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.

Transmitting one's flaws [through procreation] to someone else is a crime. I could never consent to give life to someone who would inherent my ailments.

We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.