Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.

I'm such a jerk; it had never occurred to me that when we look at a photo from the front, the eyes reproduce exactly the position and the vision of the lens; it's these things that are taken for granted and it never occurs to anyone to think about them.

For me the thing that signals a great story is what we might call its autonomy, the fact that it detaches itself from its author like a soap bubble blown from a clay pipe.

Salt and the center of the world have to be there, in that spot on the tablecloth.

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

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

Before going back to sleep I imagined (I saw) a plastic universe, changeable, full of wondrous chance, an elastic sky, a sun that suddenly is missing or remains fixed or changes its shape.