It does me good to write a letter which is not a response to a demand, a gratuitous letter, so to speak, which has accumulated in me like the waters of a reservoir.

The world itself is pregnant with failure, is the perfect manifestation of imperfection, of the consciousness of failure.

I believe in saying the truth, coming out with it cold, shocking if necessary, not disguising it.

Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos.

The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.

Everything remains unsettled forever, depend on it

With this book in my hands, reading aloud to my friends, questioning them, explaining to them, I was made clearly to understand that I had no friends, that I was alone in the world. Because in not understanding the meaning of the words, neither I nor my friends, one thing became very clear and that was that there were ways of not understanding and that the difference between the non-understanding of one individual and the non-understanding of another created a world of terra firma even more solid than differences of understanding.