The flattery of posterity is not worth much more than contemporary flattery, which is worth nothing.

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

All literature, is, finally autobiographical.

Then he reflected that reality does not usually coincide with our anticipation of it; with a logic of his own he inferred that to forsee a circumstantial detail is to prevent its happening. Trusting in this weak magic, he invented, so that they would not happen, the most gruesome details.

What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?

He constructed a vast labyrinthine of periods, made impassable by the piling-up of clauses upon clauses-clauses in which oversight and bad grammar seemed manifestations of disdain.

Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.