The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.

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.

I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?

Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

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.

Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.