Realism gives me the impression of a mistake. Violence alone escapes the feeling of poverty of those realistic experiences. Only death and desire have the force that oppresses, that takes one's breath away. Only the extremism of desire and death enable one to attain the truth.

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

Eroticism is assenting to life even in death.

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

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.

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

A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others. In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches. Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms.