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

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

The unusual is only found in a very small percentage, except in literary creations, and that is exactly what makes literature.

The best literature is always a take [in the musical sense]; there is an implicit risk in its execution, a margin of danger that is the pleasure of the flight, of the love, carrying with it a tangible loss but also a total engagement that, on another level, lends the theater its unparalleled imperfection faced with the perfection of film. I don’t want to write anything but takes.

Memory weaves and traps us at the same time according to a scheme in which we do not participate: we should never speak of our memory, for it is anything but ours; it works on its own terms, it assists us while deceiving us or perhaps deceives up to assist us.

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

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