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

Nobody appropriates novelties as readily as the Portuguese.

I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I’ve seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people with the metaphysical absurdity known as ‘flesh and blood’. In fact, ‘flesh and blood’ describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher’s marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive.

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

Life is whatever we conceive it to be.

What is art but the denial of life?

To need to dominate others is to need others. The commander is dependent.