Is it worth it to be born if you cannot remember it later? And, technically speaking, had I ever been born? Other people, of course, said that I was. As far as I know, I was born in late April, at sixty years of age, in a hospital room.

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

I think of myself as a serious professor who, during the weekend, writes novels.

Books are menaced by books. Any excess of information produces silence.

Hypotyposis is the rhetorical effect by which words succeed in rendering a visual scene.

I have always been fascinated by paranoid people imagining conspiracies. I am fascinated by this in a critical way.

The monkish vows keep us far from that sink of vice that is the female body, but often they bring us close to other errors. Can I finally hide from myself the fact that even today my old age is still stirred by the noonday demon when my eyes, in choir, happen to linger on the beardless face of a novice, pure and fresh as a maidens?