A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't be worth reading.

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.

True literature can exist only where it is created, not by diligent and trustworthy functionaries, but by madmen, hermits, heretics, dreamers, rebels, and skeptics.

You're in bad shape. It looks like you're developing a soul.

Only the rational and useful is beautiful.

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

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.