Trees are massacred, houses go up — faces, faces everywhere. Man is spreading. Man is the cancer of the earth.

Suffering makes you live time in detail, moment after moment. Which is to say that it exists for you: over the others, the ones who don't suffer, time flows, so that they don't live in time, in fact they never have.

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

A book has to dig through the wounds, more, it has cause a new one, a book it has to be dangerous.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.

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

"The Holy Ghost," Luther instructs us, "is not a skeptic." Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.