A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.

It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go.

Writing [is] a form of prayer.

All language is but a poor translation.

If you become involved with me, you will be throwing yourself into the abyss.

The history of the world, as it is written and handed down by word of mouth, often fails us completely; but man's intuitive capacity, though it often misleads, does lead, does not ever abandon one.

May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.