Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.

I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.

To restore silence is the role of objects.

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

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

We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?