Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
I think it is vanity to want to put into a story anything but the story itself.
Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.
Salt and the center of the world have to be there, in that spot on the tablecloth.
Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.
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?