And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

There is the first satisfaction of arranging it on a bit of paper; after many, many false tries, false moves, finally you have the sentence you recognize as the one you are looking for.

The more gifted and talkative one's characters are, the greater the chances of their resembling the author in tone or tint of mind.

The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.

I do not know if it has ever been noted before that one of the main characteristics of life is discreteness. Unless a film of flesh envelopes us, we die. Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveler's helmet. Stay inside or you perish. Death is divestment, death is communion. It may be wonderful to mix with the landscape, but to do so is the end of the tender ego.

To play safe, I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute.

You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.