I have no personal system of philosophy. I never attempt to do that. I am merely a man of letters.

We have shared out, like thieves, the amazing treasures of days and nights.

All theories are legitimate, no matter. What matters is what you do with them.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart, I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

I can’t talk about my books. I have written them and tried to forget them. I have written once, and readers have read me many times, no? I try to think of what I wrote, it’s very unhealthy to think about the past, the case of elegies is very sad, as much as the case of complaints.

When I wake up, I wake to something worse. It’s the astonishment of being myself

I might accept immortality, if I had to do it. But I would prefer - if there is any afterlife - to know nothing whatever about Borges, about his experiences in this world.