Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.

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Let all of life be an unfettered howl.

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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.

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Literature, real literature, must not be gulped down like some potion which may be good for the heart or good for the brain—the brain, that stomach of the soul. Literature must be taken and broken to bits, pulled apart, squashed—then its lovely reek will be smelt in the hollow of the palm, it will be munched and rolled upon the tongue with relish; then, and only then, its rare flavor will be appreciated at its true worth and the broken and crushed parts will again come together in your mind and disclose the beauty of a unity to which you have contributed something of your own blood.

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I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.

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

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We think not in words but in shadows of words.

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Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness. "No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.

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I don't think in any language. I think in images.

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Words without experience are meaningless.

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