All things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
Death is a scandal. The machine is functioning, we are all hostages
The process of writing has something infinite about it. Even though it is interrupted each night, it is one single notation, and it seems most true when it eschews artistic devices of any sort.
It is always the enemy who started it, even if he was not the first to speak out, he was certainly planning it; and if he was not actually planning it, he was thinking of it; and, if he was not thinking of it, he would have thought of it.
Every command leaves behind a painful sting in the person who is forced to carry it out.
Travelling, one accepts everything; indignation stays at home. One looks, one listens, one is roused to enthusiasm by the most dreadful things because they are new. Good travellers are heartless.
The fluid boundary between individuals and types is a true concern of the real writer.
A head full of stars, just not in constellation yet.
She was crude, but loyal. He began to understand her even better than before. A pity she was so old; it was too late to try to make a human being of her.
At this point, the jealousy that tortured me all my life commenced, and the force with which it came over me marked me forever. It became my true passion, utterly heedless of any attempts at convincing me or pointing out a better way.
All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
Success listens only to applause. To all else it is deaf.
Success is the space one occupies in the newspaper. Success is one day’s insolence.