I have no mission. No one has.

We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold.

Radio... force-feeds us music... everywhere and all the time... sewage-water music in which music is dying.

The rediscovered path, where were left the traces of childhood's lost steps.

Tell me, where in life is there a value that would make us consider suicide uncalled for on principle! Love? Or friendship? I guarantee that friendship is not a bit less fickle than love and it is impossible to build anything on it. Self-love? I wish it were possible.

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting.

She had come to him to escape her mother's world, a world where all bodies were equal. She had come to him to make her body unique, irreplaceble. But he, too had drawn an equal sign between her and the rest of them: he kissed them all alike, stroked them all alike, made no, absolutely no distiction between Tereza's body and the other bodies. He sent her back to the world she tried to escape, sent to march naked with the other naked women