Burn with that consuming fire of objectivity that forces a man to renew efforts that are doomed to failure.

Man has gone out to explore other worlds and other civilizations without having explored his own labyrinth of dark passages and secret chambers, and without finding what lies behind doorways that he himself has sealed.

The age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that Finis vitae sed non amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny.

A writer should not run around with a mirror for his countrymen; he should tell his society and his times things no one ever thought before.

I believe in no final solutions.

That human existence should repeat itself, well and good, but that it should repeat itself like a hackneyed tune, or a record a drunkard keeps playing as he feeds coins into the jukebox...

If man had more of a sense of humor, things might have turned out differently.