Come sleep with me: We won't make Love, Love will make us.
In quoting others, we cite ourselves.
Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.
I realized that searching was my symbol, the emblem of those who go out at night with nothing in mind, the motives of a destroyer of compasses.
All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.
But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself, into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously...
We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe.
Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.
Before going back to sleep I imagined (I saw) a plastic universe, changeable, full of wondrous chance, an elastic sky, a sun that suddenly is missing or remains fixed or changes its shape.
Nothing is more comical than seriousness understood as a virtue that has to precede all important literature.
Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.