In a certain sense you deny the existence of this world. You explain life as a state of rest, a state of rest in motion.
I never wish to be easily defined.
Martyrs do not underrate the body, they allow it to be elevated on the cross. In this they are at one with their antagonists.
There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
He is a free and secure citizen of the world because he is on a chain that is long enough to allow him access to all parts of the earth, and yet not so long that he could be swept over the edge of it.