The light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of all. I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware of the unreality, the evanescence of the world, a fleeting image in the moving water.

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

A writer never has a vacation. For a writer, life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.

A work of art is above all an adventure of the mind.

All cats die. Socrates is dead. Therefore Socrates is a cat.

Describe a circle, stroke its back and it turns vicious.

A nose that can see is worth two that sniff.