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.

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

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

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.