A book is a fragile creature. It suffers the wear of time, it fears rodents, the elements, clumsy hands.

The truth is an anagram of an anagram.

Originality and creativity are nothing but the result of the wise management of combinations. The creative genius combines more rapidly, and with a greater critical sense of what gets tossed out and what gets saved, the same material that the failed genius has to work with.

Daytime sleep is like the sin of the flesh; the more you have the more you want, and yet you feel unhappy, sated and unsated at the same time.

Where else? I belong to a lost generation and am comfortable only in the company of others who are lost and lonely.

We have a limit, a very discouraging, humiliating limit: death.

When the writer (or the artist in general) says he has worked without giving any thought to the rules of the process, he simply means he was working without realizing he knew the rules.