Perhaps all music, even the newest, is not so much something discovered as something that re-emerges from where it lay buried in the memory, inaudible as a melody cut in a disc of flesh. A composer lets me hear a song that has always been shut up silent within me.

Prisons! Prisons! Prisons, dungeons, blessed places where evil is impossible since they are the crossroads of all the malediction in the world. One cannot commit evil in evil.

When we see life, we call it beautiful. When we see death, we call it ugly. But it is more beautiful still to see oneself living at great speed, right up to the moment of death.

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

The main object of a revolution is the liberation of man... not the interpretation and application of some transcendental ideology.

Power may be at the end of a gun, but sometimes it's also at the end of the shadow or the image of a gun.

on him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.