I am not sure of anything, I know nothing . . . can you imagine that I don't even know the date of my own death?

Let others pride themselves about how many pages they have written; I'd rather boast about the ones I've read.

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.

Man's memory shapes Its own Eden within

Any life, however long and complicated it may be, actually consists of a single moment — the moment when a man knows forever more who he is.

Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.

You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened.