“You have to know how to look even if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

Jesus is the masterpiece. The thieves are minor works. Why are they there? Not to frame the crucifixion, as some innocent souls believe, but to hide it.

Then he went out without touching anything and put his arm around Ingeborg, and like that, with their arms around each other, they returned to the village while the whole past of the universe fell on their heads.

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

Every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me.

The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.

I kept having dreams all night. I thought they were touching me with their fingers. But dreams don’t have fingers, they have fists, so it must have been scorpions.

As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.

I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.

Literature + Illness = Illness.

The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.

I’ll tell you, my friends: it’s all in the nerves. The nerves that tense and relax as you approach the edges of companionship and love. The razor-sharp edges of companionship and love.

One should read Borges more.

If I were to say what I really think I would be arrested or shut away in a lunatic asylum. Come on, I am sure that it would be the same for everyone.

For a moment the two of them looked at each other, wordless, as if they were asleep and their dreams had converged on common ground, a place where sound was alien.

Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.

When I was done traveling, I returned convinced of one thing: we’re nothing.

My books standing there on the shelf do not know that I have written them.

There is no fire like lust, no sickness like hatred, no sorrow like separateness, no joy like peace.No disease is worse than greed, no suffering worse than selfish passion. Know this, and seek nirvana as the highest joy.

They think they can make fuel from horse manure – now, I don’t know if your car will be able to get 30 miles to the gallon, but it’s sure gonna put a stop to siphoning.

You’ve gotta have somebody to trust, that knows a lot.

I think I know what it is but don’t ask me to play it.

I can only sing songs my way. I don’t know any other way.

A legend is an old man with a cane known for what he used to do. I’m still doing it.

To say good-bye is to deny separation; it is to say Today we play at going our own ways, but we’ll see each other tomorrow. Men invented farewells because they somehow knew themselves to be immortal, even while seeing themselves as contingent and ephemeral.