Sometimes one who thinks himself incomplete is merely young.

Don't ask where the rest of this book is!" It is a shrill cry that comes from an undefined spot among the shelves. "All books continue in the beyond.

...Life is nothing but trading smells.

It is within you that the ghosts acquire voices.

Reading is going toward something that is about to be, and no one yet knows what it will be.

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

Melancholy is sadness that has taken on lightness.