Chang Tzu tells us of a persevering man who after three laborious years mastered the art of dragon-slaying. For the rest of his days, he had not a single opportunity to test his skills.

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

The mathematical sciences wield their particular language made of digits and signs, no less subtle than any other.

A labyrinth of symbols... An invisible labyrinth of time.

For myth is at the beginning of literature, and also at its end.

I suppose identity depends on memory. And if my memory is blotted out, then I wonder if I exist - I mean, if I am the same person. Of course, I don't have to solve that problem. It's up to God, if any.

The certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal.