Ugh! How many stories about love, copulation, marriage and death already exist, not one of which tells the truth! How sick I am of well-constructed plots and brilliant writing!
A story is only an outlet for frustrated aspirations, for aspirations which the story-teller conceives in accordance with a limited stock of spiritual resources inherited from previous generations.
We are the children of death and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life.
I write only for my shadow which is cast on the wall in front of the light. I must introduce myself to it.
I thought to myself: if it’s true that every person has a star in the sky, mine must be distant, dim, and absurd. Perhaps I never had a star.
In life there are certain sores which, like a kind of canker, slowly erode the soul in solitude.
My one fear is that tomorrow I may die without having come to know myself.
Only death does not lie.
I have finally learned that I must remain silent as much as possible. I must always keep my thoughts to myself.
If there were no death, everyone would wish for it.
The presence of death annihilates all superstitions. We are the children of death, and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life. In the midst of life he calls us and summons us to him.