What then did you expect when you unbound the gag that muted those black mouths? That they would chant your praises? Did you think that when those heads that our fathers had forcibly bowed down to the ground were raised again, you would find adoration in their eyes?

We are possessed by the things we possess. When I like an object, I always give it to someone. It isn't generosity-it's only because I want others to be enslaved by objects, not me.

One cannot become a saint when one works sixteen hours a day.

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

Better to have beasts that let themselves be killed than men who run away.

Good digestions, the gray monotony of provincial life, and the boredom-ah the soul-destroying boredom-of long days of mild content.

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