I have no other pictures of the world apart from those which express evanescence, and callousness, vanity and anger, emptiness, orhideous useless hate. Everything has merely confirmed what I had seen and understood in my childhood: futile and sordid fits of rage, cries suddenly blanketed by the silence, shadows swallowed up for ever by the night.

I'll never waste my dreams by falling asleep. Never again.

Mediocrity is more dangerous in a critic than in a writer.

The critic should describe, and not prescribe.

You've always made the mistake of being yourself.

That's how we stay young these days: murder and suicide.

We are made to be immortal, and yet we die. It's horrible, it can't be taken seriously