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.

Every gesture is a revolutionary act.

In this metallic age of barbarians, only a relentless cultivation of our ability to dream, to analyse and to captivate can prevent our personality from degenerating into nothing or else into a personality like all the rest.

There’s enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.

Action men are the unvoluntary slaves of wise men.

To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.

Ah, what a morning this is, awakening me to life's stupidity. [98 - Zenith trans.]