Indeed, the direction of the future is only there in order to elude us.

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.

The emotional element which gives an obsessive value to communal existence is death.

The sacred demands the violation of what is normally the object of terrified respect.

The truth is paradoxical to the extent of being exactly contrary to the usual perception.

The sexual act is in time what the tiger is in space.

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