We all have appointments with the past.

No one can explain exactly what happens within us when the doors behind which our childhood terrors lurk are flung open.

We take almost all the decisive steps in our lives as a result of slight inner adjustments of which we are barely conscious.

There is something peculiarly dispriting about the emptiness that wells up when, in a strange city, one dials the same telephone numbers in vain.

I feel more and more as if time did not exist at all... only various spaces interlocking according to the rules of a higher form of stereometry[the geometric measurement of solid bodies], between which the living and the dead can move back and forth as they like, and the longer I think about it the more it seems to me that we who are still alive are unreal in the eyes of the dead.

The moral backbone of literature is about that whole question of memory. To my mind it seems clear that those who have no memory have the much greater chance to lead happy lives.

By all means be experimental, but let the reader be part of the experiment