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

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.

If you’re going to say what you want to say, you’re going to hear what you don’t want to hear.

The American mirror, said the voice, the sad American mirror of wealth and poverty and constant useless metamorphosis, the mirror that sails and whose sails are pain.

Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.

Neither can the wave that has passed by be recalled, nor the hour which has passed return again.

It is indifferent to me where I am to begin, for there shall I return again.

Even unconditional love will run out eventually if you don’t return the effort they make for you.

Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return?

Do good without the expectation that your favour will be returned.

A tear once lost returns but a love once lost is lost forever.

If I were reincarnated I would wish to be returned to Earth as a killer virus to lower human population levels.

We all return to dreams, don’t we? The unattainable is alluring, desire is tenfold.