Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.

La Maga did not know that my kisses were like eyes which began to open up beyond her, and that I went along outside as if I saw a different concept of the world, the dizzy pilot of a black prow which cut the water of time and negated it.

But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously.

I think it is vanity to want to put into a story anything but the story itself.

What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?

Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.

Where are the beginnings, the endings, and most important, the middles?