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

The future has no other reality than as present hope, and the past is no more than present memory.

Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.

What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose?

Besides, rereading, not reading, is what counts.

Any life, however long and complicated it may be, actually consists of a single moment — the moment when a man knows forever more who he is.

I am attracted to fantastic writing, and fantastic reading, of course. But I think things that we call fantastic may be real, in the sense of being real symbols.