Life is the external text, the burning bush by the edge of the path from which God speaks.

To write well consists of continuously making small erosions, wearing away grammar in its established form, current norms of language. It is an act of permanent rebellion and subversion against social environs.

The struggle with the past is not a hand-to-hand fight. The future overcomes it by swallowing it. If it leaves anything outside it is lost.

We do not live to think, but, on the contrary, we think in order that we may succeed in surviving.

In these years we are witnessing the gigantic spectacle of innumerable human lives wandering about lost in their own labyrinths, through not having anything to which to give themselves.

Stupefaction, when it persists, becomes stupidity.

To wonder is to begin to understand.