I am going to outlive myself. Eat, sleep, sleep, eat. Exist slowly, softly, like these trees, like a puddle of water, like the red bench in the streetcar.

Death is a continuation of my life without me.

Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.

Absurd, irreducible; nothing--not even a profound and secret delirium of nature--could explain [a tree root].

I want to leave, to go somewhere where I should be really in my place, where I would fit in . . . but my place is nowhere; I am unwanted.

It is only in our decisions that we are important.

Better a good journalist than a poor assassin.