Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.

In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.

Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.

Anybody who preserves the ability to recognize beauty will never get old.

A stair not worn hollow by footsteps is, regarded from its own point of view, only a boring something made of wood.

It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.

There will be no proof that I ever was a writer.