I believe, I desire, that social and economic ills may be remedied.

As if there could be true stories: things happen in one way, and we retell them in the opposite way.

The sun is not ridiculous, quite the contrary. On everything I like, on the rust of the construction girders, on the rotten boards of the fence, a miserly, uncertain light falls, like the look you give, after a sleepless night, on decisions made with enthusiasm the day before, on pages you have written in one spurt without crossing out a word.

There are two types of poor people, those who are poor together and those who are poor alone. The first are the true poor, the others are rich people out of luck.

I am. I am, I exist, I think, therefore I am; I am because I think, why do I think? I don't want to think any more, I am because I think that I don't want to be, I think that I . . . because . . . ugh!

Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

Don't you feel the same way? When I cannot see myself, even though I touch myself, I wonder if I really exist.