...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.

All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter.

Although I do not care for the slogan "art for art's sake", there can be no question that what makes a work of fiction safe from larvae and rust is not its social importance but its art, only its art.

...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.

Do those clowns really believe what they teach?

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.