So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

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

I am interested in the past. Perhaps one of the reasons is we cannot make, cannot change the past. I mean you can hardly unmake the present. But the past after all is merely to say a memory, a dream. You know my own past seems continually changed when I am remembering it, or reading things that are interesting to me.

A writer's work is the product of laziness.

You will reply that reality hasn't the slightest need to be of interest. And I'll answer you that reality may avoid the obligation to be interesting, but that hypotheses may not. In the hypothesis you have postulated, chance intervenes largely. Here lies a dead rabbi; I should prefer a purely rabbinical explanation; not the imaginary mischances of an imaginary robber.

It only takes two facing mirrors to build a labyrinth.

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.