I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

There is a concept which corrupts and upsets all others. I refer not to Evil, whose limited realm is that of ethics; I refer to the infinite.

Any time something is written against me, I not only share the sentiment but feel I could do the job far better myself. Perhaps I should advise would-be enemies to send me their grievances beforehand, with full assurance that they will receive my every aid and support. I have even secretly longed to write, under a pen name, a merciless tirade against myself.

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.

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

Captivated by its discipline, humanity forgets and goes on forgetting that it is the discipline of chess players, not of angels.