When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.

To think is to destroy. The very process of thought indicates it for the same thought, as thinking is decomposing.

I always live in the present. The future I can't know. The past I no longer have.

We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept—our own selves—that we love.

We’ve been devastated by the severest and deadliest drought in history – that of our profound awareness of the futility of all effort and the vanity of all plans.

All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.

The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.