I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

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Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.

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Words without experience are meaningless.

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Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.

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Some people—and I am one of them—hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically.

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Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.

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Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

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Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.

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Genius is an African who dreams up snow.

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