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

Religions get lost as people do.

Please — consider me a dream.

A book should serve as an axe to the ice inside us.

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

They did not know what we can now guess at, contemplating the course of history: that change begins in the soul before it appears in ordinary existence.

One tells as few lies as possible only by telling as few lies as possible, and not by having the least possible opportunity to do so.