I had thought that words were instruments of precision. Now I know that they devour the world, leaving nothing in its place.

All words are masks and the lovelier they are, the more they are meant to conceal.

Stories, like conjuring tricks, are invented because history is inadequate for our dreams.

Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

I’m pleased by anything in myself that strikes me as not myself.

I had thought that words were instruments of precision. Now I know that they devour the world, leaving nothing in its place.

His ambition was to insert his dreams into the world, and if they were the wrong dreams, then he would dream them in solitude.