That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.

I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

My mistakes are my life.

You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.

Success and failure on the public level never mattered much to me, in fact I feel more at home with the latter, having breathed deep of its vivifying air all my writing life up to the last couple of years.