The night stared me in the face, amorphous, blind, infinite, without frontiers. Not a single start relieved the darkness behind the glass.

Either something is authentic or it is unauthentic, it is either false or true, make-believe or spontaneous life; yet here we are faced with a prevaricated truth and an authentic fake, hence a thing that is at once the truth and a lie.

Skepticism is like a microscope whose magnification is constantly increased: the sharp image that one begins with finally dissolves, because it is not possible to see ultimate things: their existence is only to be inferred.

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.

People make filthy things with the freedom they regained.

Every stink that fights the ventilator thinks it is Don Quixote.

Genius is not so much a light as it is a constant awareness of the surrounding gloom.