Whatever is not stone is light

Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone.

If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement.

I sat at the foot of a huge tree, a statue of the night, and tried to make an inventory of all I had seen, heard, smelled, and felt: dizziness, horror, stupor, astonishment, joy, enthusiasm, nausea, inescapable attraction. What had attracted me? It was difficult to say: Human kind cannot bear much reality.

Writers, you know, are the beggars of Western society.

Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift.

listen to me as one listens to the rain, the years go by, the moments return, do you hear the footsteps in the next room? not here, not there: you hear them in another time that is now, listen to the footsteps of time, inventor of places with no weight, nowhere, listen to the rain running over the terrace, the night is now more night in the grove, lightning has nestled among the leaves, a restless garden adrift-go in, your shadow covers this page.