“Censorship is the mother of metaphor.”

Creativity is suspended between memory and forgetting.

I suppose identity depends on memory. And if my memory is blotted out, then I wonder if I exist – I mean, if I am the same person. Of course, I don’t have to solve that problem. It’s up to God, if any.

I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive.

Reality may avoid the obligation to be interesting, but hypotheses may not.

In adultery, there is usually tenderness and self-sacrifice; in murder, courage; in profanation and blasphemy, a certain satanic splendour. Judas elected those offences unvisited by any virtues: abuse of confidence and informing.

I am not sure of anything, I know nothing. Can you imagine that I don’t even know the date of my own death?

You may win your heart’s desire, but in the end you’re cheated of it by death.

To die for a religion is easier than to live it absolutely.

When one confesses to an act, one ceases to be an actor in it and becomes its witness, becomes a man that observes and narrates it and no longer the man that performed it.

I cannot sleep unless I am surrounded by books.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

May Heaven exist, even if my place is Hell.

Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.

What I’m really concerned about is reaching one person. And that person may be myself for all I know.

The word happiness exists in every language; it is plausible the thing itself exists.

Every man should be capable of all ideas.

It’s also easy to look at them as a metaphor for a shadow organization that says one thing and has a completely different agenda on their mind, and anybody who gets in their way, they just get rid of them. Does that sound familiar?

I’ll buy metaphor, but simile’s a cop-out used by scaredycats who won’t commit to anything. Simile’s for cowards.

It’s easy to look at the vampires as a metaphor for any feared or misunderstood group.

The sea is an idiom I cannot decipher.

The Holocaust is a central event in many people’s lives, but it also has become a metaphor for our century. There cannot be an end to speaking and writing about it. Besides, in Israel, everyone carries a biography deep inside him.

I am not writing in metaphors. I am writing about catastrophes.

Often in winter the end of the day is like the final metaphor in a poem celebrating death: there is no way out.

It was easier than explaining DiMaggio’s use as a metaphor.