The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.

The essential doesn't change.

Birth was the death of him.

That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.