Life and love would go on. Even though it would happen without me, the idea brought me joy.
The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.
The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.
Painting can feign reality without having seen it.
Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.
. . . language is never innocent.
Sometimes I feel like the kid left out - the weirdo with the silver hair that no one likes to talk to.
The fact that the poor are alive is clear proof of their ability.
Compare. . . the various quantities of the same element contained in the molecule of the free substance and in those of all its different compounds and you will not be able to escape the following law: The different quantities of the same element contained in different molecules are all whole multiples of one and the same quantity, which always being entire, has the right to be called an atom.
Death is just where your suit falls off and now you're in your other suit. You can't see it on this level, but it's all right. Don't worry.