Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile a stain upon the silence.

Art has always been this pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

We are all born crazy. Some of us remain that way.

I couldn't have done it otherwise, gone on I mean. I could not have gone on through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.

Perhaps my best years are gone ... but I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire that's in me now.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

After all this window is whatever I want it to be, up to a point, that’s right, don’t compromise yourself. What strikes me to begin with is how much rounder it is than it was, so that it looks like a bull’s-eye, or a porthole. No matter, provided there is something on the other side.

The inspection once completed it is usual to put everything carefully back in place as far as possible. It is enjoined by a certain ethics not to do unto others what coming from them might give offence.