The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.

I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. 'Nothing is more real than nothing.' They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.

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.

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

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.

The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.

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