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.

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still, and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.

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.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.

All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.