Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.

A lawyer is a person who writes a 10,000-word document and calls it a "brief."

There sat I, a faded being, under faded leaves.

Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.

A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.

I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for?