The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.

To write? Because all this is going to vanish. The only thing left will be the prose and poems, the books, what is written down. Man was very fortunate to have invented the book. Without it the past would completely vanish, and we would be left with nothing, we would be naked on earth.

Now they are lovers. The first, wild courses are ended. They have founded their domain. A satanic happiness follows.

We were moderate, we will never know what it is to spill out our lives.

Lots of scripts are written and not made, even scripts that people want to make.

Hope but not enthusiasm is the proper state for the writer.

Certain things I remember exactly as they were. They are merely discolored a bit by time, like coins in the pocket of a forgotten suit. Most of the details, though, have long since been transformed or rearranged to bring others of them forward. Some, in fact, are obviously counterfeit; they are no less important. One alters the past to form the future.