If you're going to be a writer you have to be one of the great ones... After all, there are better ways to starve to death.

...The girl raised her eyes to see who was passing by the window, and that casual glance was the beginning of a cataclysm of love that still had not ended half a century later.

I would give wings to children, but I would leave it to them to learn how to fly by themselves.

I ask myself how I could give in to this perpetual vertigo that I in fact provoked and feared. I floated among erratic clouds and talked to myself in front of the mirror in the vain hope of confirming who I was. My delirium was so great that during a student demonstration complete with rocks and bottles, I had to make an enormous effort not to lead it as I held up a sign that would sanctify my truth: I am mad with love.

Jealousy knows more than truth does.

Morality, too, is a question of time.

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.