What are we doing here, that is the question.

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.

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.

As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.

Words fail, there are times when even they fail.

The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.

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