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

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?

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.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.

It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.