Thus we have on stage two men, each of whom knows nothing of what he believes the other knows, and to deceive each other reciprocally both speak in allusions, each of the two hoping (in vain) that the other holds the key to his puzzle.

I consider always the adult life to be the continuous retrieval of childhood.

Every great thinker is someone else's moron.

Thus I rediscovered what writers have always known (and have told us again and again): books always speak of other books, and every story tells a story that has already been told.

Mystical additions and subtractions always come out the way you want.

Books always speak of other books.

The step between ecstatic vision and sinful frenzy is all too brief.