Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.
I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.
A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.
We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.
Who invented the human heart, I wonder? Tell me, and then show me the place where he was hanged.
I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.
There is no pain compared to that of loving a woman who makes her body accessible to one and yet who is incapable of delivering her true self -- because she does not know where to find it.