Eroticism is like a dance: one always leads the other.

we might also call vertigo the intoxication of the weak. aware of his weakness, a man decides to give in rather than stand up to it. he is drunk with weakness, wishes to grow even weaker, wishes to fall down in the middle of the main square in front of everybody, wishes to be down, lower than down.

But which was the real me? Let me be perfectly honest: I was a man of many faces. (p.33)

All novels . . . are concerned with the enigma of the self. As soon as you create an imaginary being, a character, you are automatically confronted by the question: what is the self? How can it be grasped?

Disgust at having to talk about oneself is what distinguishes novelistic talent from lyric talent.

Even in the game there lurks a lack of freedom; even in a game is a trap for the players.

But what had happened, had happened, and it was no longer possible to right anything.