Reality is the apparent absence of contradiction. The marvelous is the eruption of contradiction within the real.

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Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

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Most people have never known solitude. But there are a few of the other kind who can go back to their rooms anywhere and close the door on the whole world, and feel that they need never emerge.

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There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses.

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Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.

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For each man there awaits a particular image capable of annihilating the entire universe.

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Your imagination, my dear fellow, is worth more than you imagine.

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Can the knowledge deriving from reason even begin to compare with knowledge perceptible by sense?

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I have no friends, there are only people I love.

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Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.

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