For the moment, the jazz is playing; there is no melody, just notes, a myriad tiny tremors. The notes know no rest, an inflexibleorder gives birth to them then destroys them, without ever leaving them the chance to recuperate and exist for themselves.... I would like to hole them back, but I know that, if I succeeded in stooping one, there would only remain in may hand a corrupt and languishing sound. I must accept their death; I must even want that death: I know of few more bitter or intense impressions.

I am a man, Jupiter, and each man must invent his own path.

One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world.

Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.

Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

The world would get along very well without literature. It would get along even better without man.

[Stéphane Mallarmé] theory of the hermetic is a mistake, but he can be only difficult to read when he has difficult things to say.