Falsehood is never in words; it is in things.

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.

Myth is the hidden part of every story, the buried part, the region that is still unexplored because there are as yet no words to enable us to get there. Myth is nourished by silence as well as by words.

The contradiction [trying to use Russian model to reshape Italy] grew to such an extent that I felt totally cut off from the communist world and, in the end, from politics. That was fortunate. The idea of putting literature in second place, after politics, is an enormous mistake, because politics almost never achieves its ideals.

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

Who are we, who is each one of us, if not a combinatoria of experiences, information, books we have read, things imagined?

The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts.