Now I no longer live in our clear, rational world; I live in the ancient nightmare world, the world of square roots of minus one.

I am like a machine being driven to excessive rotations: the bearings are incandescing and, in a minute, melted metal will begin to drip and everything will turn to nothing. Quick: get cold water, logic. I am pouring it over myself by the bucketload but the logic sizzles on the hot bearings and dissipates elusive white steam into the air.

The whole world is one immense woman, and we are in her very womb, we are not yet born, we are joyfully ripening.

The microspeed of the tongue ought to be always slightly less than the microspeed of the thoughts and certainly not ever the reverse.

what primitive tastes the ancients must have had if their poets were inspired by those absurd, untidy clumps of mist, idiotically jostling one another about

Revolution is everywhere, in everything. There is no final revolution, no final number.

Literature is painting, architecture, and music.