But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket

Everyone loathes his own country and countrymen if he is any sort of artist.

An idea is like a rare bird which cannot be seen. What one sees is the trembling of the branch it has just left.

There is no pain compared to that of loving a woman who makes her body accessible to one and yet who is incapable of delivering her true self -- because she does not know where to find it.

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.

A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.

The heaviest impact of the work of art is in the guts. Art does not reason. It manhandles you and changes you.