Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
To restore silence is the role of objects.
If you don’t know where you are currently standing, you’re dead.
Birth was the death of him.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
So all things limp together for the only possible.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.
Normally I didn’t see a great deal. I didn’t hear a great deal either. I didn’t pay attention. Strictly speaking I wasn’t there. Strictly speaking I believe I’ve never been anywhere.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it’s the most comical thing in the world.