I sometimes longed for someone who, like me, had not adjusted perfectly with his age, and such a person was hard to find; but I soon discovered cats, in which I could imagine a condition like mine, and books, where I found it quite often.

I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.

Where are the beginnings, the endings, and most important, the middles?

When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.

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

The fantastic breaks the crust of appearance … something grabs us by the shoulders to throw us outside ourselves. I have always known that the big surprises await us where we have learned to be surprised by nothing, that is, where we are not shocked by ruptures in the order.

What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?