A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual, and only the individual reader is important to me. I don't give a damn for the group, the community, the masses, and so forth.

You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.

Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.

I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.

There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.

Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive. Remembered ones dress up for the occasion and sit still. Memory is a photo-studio de luxe on an infinite Fifth Power Avenue.