To kill our dream life would be to kill ourselves, to mutilate our soul. Dreaming is the one thing we have that's really ours, invulnerably and inalterably ours.

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.

I am nothing. I'll never be anything. I couldn't want to be something. Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams in the world.

I'd like to be in the country so that I'd could like being in the city.

The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life.

I am the suburb of a non-existent town, the prolix commentary on a book never written. I am nobody, nobody. I am a character in a novel which remains to be written, and I float, aerial, scattered without ever having been, among the dreams of a creature who did not know how to finish me off.

Without madness what is man But a wholesome beast, Postponed corpse that begets?