Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.

They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.

I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.

There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.