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.

Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can begin to exist.

In abortion, the person who is massacred, physically and morally, is the woman.

The unconscious is the ocean of the unsayable, of what has been expelled from the land of language, removed as a result of ancient prohibitions.

The catalogue of forms is endless: until every shape has found its city, new cities will continue to be born. When the forms exhaust their variety and come apart, the end of cities begins.

You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst.

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