We all have a world of things inside ourselves and each one of us has his own private world. How can we understand each other if the words I use have the sense and the value that I expect them to have, but whoever is listening to me inevitably thinks that those same words have a different sense and value, because of the private world he has inside himself, too.

The facts are to blame, my friend. We are all imprisoned by facts: I was born, I exist.

Phantoms in general are nothing more than trifling disorders of the spirit; images we cannot contain within the bounds of sleep.

I would love to spend all my time writing to you; I'd love to share with you all that goes through my mind, all that weighs on my heart, all that gives air to my soul; phantoms of art, dreams that would be so beautiful if they could come true.

There is someone who is living my life. And I know nothing about him.

If only we could see in advance all the harm that can come from the good we think we are doing.

Blind yourself, for I am blind.