Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.

Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.

In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago. And many of them seem to me written by a stranger: I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else's dream.

I've always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises. Like a complete outsider, a casual observer of whom I thought I was, I've always enjoyed watching my daydreams go down in defeat. I was never convinced of what I believed in. I filled my hands with sand, called it gold, and opened them up to let it slide through. Words were my only truth. When the right words were said, all was done; the rest was the sand that had always been.

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

We live by action—by acting on desire. Those of us who don't know how to want—whether geniuses or beggars—are related by impotence.