I do not cut my life up into days but my days into lives, each day, each hour, an entire life.

The background reveals the true being and state of being of the man or thing. If I do not possess the background, I make the man transparent, the thing transparent.

If they give you ruled paper, write the other way.

I am not I. I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see, whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget; who remains calm and silent while I talk, and forgives, gently, when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will remain standing when I die.

Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.

Some of my affectionate envious friends say, "You write too much." Maybe, I answer. But as long as the best of your little is worse than the worst of my much, I will keep on doing so.

I do not cut my life up into days but my days into lives, each day, each hour, an entire life.