(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.

When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.

Literature is ... a game, but it's a game one can put one's life into.

Before going back to sleep I imagined (I saw) a plastic universe, changeable, full of wondrous chance, an elastic sky, a sun that suddenly is missing or remains fixed or changes its shape.

We know that attention acts as a lightning rod. Merely by concentrating on something one causes endless analogies to collect around it, even penetrate the boundaries of the subject itself: an experience that we call coincidence, serendipity – the terminology is extensive. My experience has been that in these circular travels what is really significant surrounds a central absence, an absence that, paradoxically, is the text being written or to be written.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

I can't think of another writer who can move me as surreptitiously as Vian does