I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything.

Literature exists because the world isn't enough.

Never having discovered qualities in myself which could attract someone else, I could never believe that anyone felt attracted to me.

Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn't what we see but what we are.

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.

Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.

Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.