The more one was lost in unfamiliar quarters of distant cities, the more one understood the other cities he had crossed to arrive there.

They knew each other. He knew her and so himself, for in truth he had never known himself. And she knew him and so herself, for although she had always known herself she had never been able to recognize it until now.

The soul is often in the surface, and the importance of 'depth' is overestimated.

Novels as dull as dishwater, with the grease of random sentiments floating on top.

Memories images, once they are fixed in words, are erased.

Fantasy is like jam. . . . You have to spread it on a solid piece of bread. If not, it remains a shapeless thing . . . out of which you can’t make anything.

Who are we, who is each one of us, if not a combination of experiences, information, books we have read, things imagined? Each life is an encyclopedia, a library, an inventory of objects, a series of styles, and everything can be constantly shuffled and reordered in every way conceivable.