The mysterious does not spell itself out in capital letters, as many writers believe, but is always between, an interstice.

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.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

The more a book is like an opium pipe, the more the Chinaman reader is satisfied with it and tends to discuss the quality of the drug rather than its lethargic effects.

All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.

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

I have never described this to you before, not so much, I don't think, from lack of truthfulness as that, just naturally, one is not going to explain to people at large that from time to time one vomits up a small rabbit.