That one individual should awaken in another memories that belong to still a third is an obvious paradox.

Everything touches everything.

I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left...

If a writer disbelieves what he is writing, then he can hardly expect his reader to believe it.

I...have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny — that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.

What a writer wants to do is not what he does.

Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process.