As the years pass, the number of those we can communicate with diminishes. When there is no longer anyone to talk to, at last we will be as we were before stooping to a name.

A book is a suicide postponed.

The limit of every pain is an even greater pain.

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

Anyone who speaks in the name of others is always an impostor.

If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.

Time is heavy sometimes; imagine how heavy eternity must be.