Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!

Literature exists because the world isn't enough.

Nobody appropriates novelties as readily as the Portuguese.

Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.

Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.

When one of my Japanese teacups is broken, I imagine that the real cause was not the careless hand of a maid but the anxieties of the figures inhabiting the curves of that porcelain. Their grim decision to commit suicide doesn't shock me: they used the maid as one of us might use a gun.

We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.