All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
