But my silence is real. If I hid it from you, you would find it again a little farther on.

If nothing were substituted for everything, it would still be too much and too little.

Weak thoughts, weak desires: he felt their force.

Literature professes to be important while at the same time considering itself an object of doubt. It confirms itself as it disparages itself. It seeks itself: this is more than it has a right to do, because literature may be one of those things which deserve to be found but not to be sought.

A writer never reads his work. For him, it is the unreadable, a secret, and he cannot remain face to face with it. A secret, because he is separated from it.

The disaster ruins everything, all the while leaving everything intact.

To see was terrifying, and to stop seeing tore me apart from my forehead to my throat.