I have at this moment so many fundamental thoughts, so many truly metaphysical things to say, that I suddenly get tired and decide not to write any more, not to think any more, but to allow the fever of speaking to make me sleepy, and with my eyes closed, like a cat, I play with everything I could have said.

Never read a book to the end, nor even in sequence and without skipping.

I never meant to be but a dreamer.

Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.

And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

My homeland is the portuguese language.

The Gods sell when they give. Glory is paid for with disgrace. Poor are the happy, for they are Just what passes.