I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.
You are what you are and that fascinates me.
Get rid of things or you'll spend your whole life tidying up.
When the past is recaptured by the imagination, breath is put back into life.
You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.
The best way to fill time is to waste it.
It’s not that you have to achieve anything, it’s that you have to get away from where you are.
Very early in my life it was too late.
It was the men I deceived the most that I loved the most.
A book consists of two layers: on top, the readable layer ... and underneath, a layer that was inaccessible. You only sense its existence in a moment of distraction from the literal reading, the way you see childhood through a child. It would take forever to tell what you see, and it would be pointless.
That she had so completely recovered her sanity was a source of sadness to her. One should never be cured of one's passion.
In heterosexual love there's no solution. Man and woman are irreconcilable, and it's the doomed attempt to do the impossible, repeated in each new affair, that lends heterosexual love its grandeur.
Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country.
In love there are no vacations. No such thing. Love has to be lived fully with its boredom and all that.
I know it's not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction of costliness of their finery. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don't know where. I only know it isn't where women think.
The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.
I've known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you're more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.
Oh, how good it is to be with someone, sometimes.
Madness is like intelligence, you know. You can't explain it. Just like intelligence. It comes on you, it fills you, and then you understand it. But when it goes away you can't understand it at all any longer.
Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.
Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before nothing. Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome.
I've forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I've forgotten them, and now I'm talking to you without them.
When it's in a book I don't think it'll hurt any more ...exist any more. One of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.
Banality is sometimes striking.
...as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened.
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