Time is the tiger that devours me, but I am that tiger.

Let others pride themselves about how many pages they have written; I'd rather boast about the ones I've read.

I gazed at every mirror on the planet, not one gave back my reflection.

Happy are the beloved and the lovers and those who can live without love.

The exercise of letters is sometimes linked to the ambition to construct an absolute book, a book of books that includes the others like a Platonic archetype, an object whose virtues are not diminished by the passage of time.

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

No one is anyone, one single immortal man is all men. Like Cornelius Agrippa, I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist.