Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite.

A writer - and, I believe, generally all persons - must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.

Creativity is suspended between memory and forgetting.

That one individual should awaken in another memories that belong to still a third is an obvious paradox.

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

I think most people are more important than their opinions.

Censorship is the mother of metaphor.