Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.

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

Human history is the sad result of each one looking out for himself.

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?

Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.

Nothing is more comical than seriousness understood as a virtue that has to precede all important literature

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.