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

We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

I realized that searching was my symbol, the emblem of those who go out at night with nothing in mind, the motives of a destroyer of compasses.

Everything can be killed except nostalgia for the kingdom, we carry it in the color of our eyes, in every love affair, in everything that deeply torments and unties and tricks.

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.

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