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.
(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.
Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.
Literature is ... a game, but it's a game one can put one's life into.
Where are the beginnings, the endings, and most important, the middles?
As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.