Incredible nervous state, trepidation beyond words: to be this much in love is to be sick (and I love to be sick).

The owl flies, in the moonlight, over a field where the wounded cry out. Like the owl, I fly in the night over my own misfortune.

Each of us is incomplete compared to someone else - an animal's incomplete compared to a person... and a person compared to God, who is complete only to be imaginary.

It is clear that the world is purely parodic, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form.

I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction.

We did not lack modesty—on the contrary—but something urgently drove us to defy modesty together as immodestly as possible.

The anguish of the neurotic individual is the same as that of the saint. The neurotic, the saint are engaged in the same battle. Their blood flows from similar wounds. But the first one gasps and the other one gives.