Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.

Skill alone cannot teach or produce a great short story, which condenses the obsession of the creature; it is a hallucinatory presence manifest from the first sentence to fascinate the reader, to make him lose contact with the dull reality that surrounds him, submerging him in another that is more intense and compelling.

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.

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

Why have we had to invent Eden, to live submerged in the nostalgia of a lost paradise, to make up utopias, propose a future for ourselves?

The novel wins by points, the short story by knockout.

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