It's not demons (who at least have a human face) but Hell itself that seems to be laughing inside me, it's the croaking madness of the dead universe, the spinning cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds blowing blackly in the wind, formless and timeless, without a God who created it, without even its own self, impossibly whirling in the absolute darkness as the one and only reality, everything.

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

I had the same sensation as when we watch someone sleep. When asleep we all become children again. Perhaps because in the state of slumber we can do no wrong and are unconscious of life, the greatest criminal and most self- absorbed egotist are holy, by a natural magic, as long as they're sleeping. For me there's no discernible difference between killing a child and killing a sleeping man.

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

This world is for those who are born to conquer it, Not for those who dream that are able to conquer it, even if they're right.

Literature exists because the world isn't enough.

The sea with an end can be Greek or Roman: the endless sea is Portuguese.