This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.

I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And then anything, anything could happen.

I am not virtuous. Our sons will be if we shed enough blood to give them the right to be.

Violence is good for those who have nothing to lose.

We make our own hell out of the people around us.

What is life but an unpleasant interruption to a peaceful nonexistence.

I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.