They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him.

The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.

When you die of sorrow it's as if you've broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That's sorrow.

We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.

There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.

One should read Borges more.

I'd obviously never heard of the group, but my ignorance in literary matters is to blame for that (every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me).