It is a masque ball, to which all the philosophies of the world are invited. Because I feel sorry for them, I wear this masque you see before you, on the page. The masque is in the shape of a word, and the word says, 'Reality'. But once I leave, few will leave with me, because, though many like my masque, it is no easy thing to see what is behind it.

The old woman said to me, 'I do not want to write any more books. I want to play on the sun. I have lost all my manners and all my culture. I am only good for playing with young children; and that is all I want to do.'

The stimulation is not analysed: transcendent pleasure. One lacks the will to continue: necessary tranquility.

It is certainly not necessary to have a large vocabulary. However, one must understand how a certain kind of rhythm one's writing is able to induce suggestibility.

Inspiration and time are like Siamese twins: they feed each other.

There is a level of perception from which nothing is seen, and one becomes an idiot.

We are not useful: nor are our occupations, our intelligence, our philosophies of life, useful in any way. How we struggle with that. Each useless shape is linked to another: but we can find no use for any of it.