The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral.

Everything touches everything.

My undertaking is not difficult, essentially. I should only have to be immortal to carry it out.

It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death.

I think of reading a book as no less an experience than travelling or falling in love.

One concept corrupts and confuses the others. I am not speaking of the Evil whose limited sphere is ethics; I am speaking of the infinite.

Only in the present do things happen.