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

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

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

We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

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

I saw that I was in danger of becoming ordinary, and I understood that from now on I would have to be vigilant.

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