In reviewing my life, in tracing its course, I fill my cell with the pleasure of being what for want of a trifle I failed to be, recapturing, so that I may hurl myself into them as into dark pits, those moments when I strayed through the trap-ridden compartments of a subterranean sky

They spent their time doing nothing... they let intimacy fuse them.

Betrayal is beautiful.

Anyone who's never experienced the pleasure of betrayal doesn't know what pleasure is.

I could not take lightly the idea that people made love without me.

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

The despondency that follows makes me feel somewhat like a shipwrecked man who spies a sail, sees himself saved, and suddenly remembers that the lens of his spyglass has a flaw, a blurred spot -- the sail he has seen.