There Is No Language Without Deceit.

Literature Remains Alive Only If We Set Ourselves Immeasurable Goals, Far Beyond All Hope Of Achievement. Only If Poets And Writers Set Themselves Tasks That No One Else Dares Imagine Will Literature Continue To Have A Function.

I Had Fallen In Love. What I Mean Is: I Had Begun To Recognize, To Isolate The Signs Of One Of Those From The Others, In Fact I Waited For These Signs I Had Begun To Recognize, I Sought Them, Responded To Those Signs I Awaited With Other Signs I Made Myself, Or Rather It Was I Who Aroused Them, These Signs From Her, Which I Answered With Other Signs Of My Own . . .

For The Man Who Thought He Was Man There Is No Salvation.

You'll Understand When You've Forgotten What You Understood Before

Futures Not Achieved Are Only Branches Of The Past: Dead Branches.