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

I enjoy wording. Words for me are tangible bodies, visible sirens, incarnate sensualities.

If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.

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.

I never had anyone I could call “Master”. No Christ died for me. No Buddha showed me the right path. In the depths of my dreams no Apollo or Athena appeared to me to enlighten my soul

That is my morality or my metaphysics or me myself: a passer-by in everything, even my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world.

I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.