Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.

What can it matter to me, that I succeed or fail ? The undertaking is none of mine, if they want me to succeed I'll fail, and vice versa, so as not to be rid of my tormentors.

An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.

Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.

But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.