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.

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

This desire [to write] is rather strange all the same and is not without a certain "cracked" quality.

The real nature of the present revealed itself: it was what exists, all that was not present did not exist.

Commitment is an act, not a word.

Life begins on the other side of despair.

It's quite an undertaking to start loving somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment right at the start where you have to jump across an abyss: if you think about it you don't do it.