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

But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously.

All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.

The unusual is only found in a very small percentage, except in literary creations, and that is exactly what makes literature.

What most people call loving consists of picking out a woman and marrying her. They pick her out, I swear, I’ve seen them. 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. They probably say that they pick her out because-they-love-her, I think it’s just the siteoppo. Beatrice wasn’t picked out, Juliet wasn’t picked out. You don’t pick out the rain that soaks you to a skin when you come out of a concert.

The mysterious does not spell itself out in capital letters, as many writers believe, but is always between, an interstice.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.