Although I could never get used to the constant state of anxiety in which the guilty, the great, and the tenderhearted live, I felt I was doing my best in the way of mimicry.

She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.

Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.

I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.

The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition

A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.

...and the red sun of desire and decision (the two things that create a live world) rose higher and higher, while upon a succession of balconies a succession of libertines, sparkling glass in hand, toasted the bliss of past and future nights.