What is better than to sit at the end of the day and drink wine with friends, or substitutes for friends?

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.

The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.

I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.

When a man is born...there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.

I don't want to die. Damn death. Long live life.

What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?