Danger is what makes life precious. Death is the constant danger of life.

Comments and Image

I write very simple and very naked. That's why it wounds. I'm a grey and blue landscape. I rise in a dry fountain and in the cold light.

Comments and Image

Reality doesn't surprise me. But that's not true: I suddenly feel such a hunger for the "thing to really happen" that I cry out and bite into reality with my lacerating teeth. And afterwards give a sigh over the captive whose flesh I ate. And again, for a long while, I do without real reality and find comfort in living from my imagination.

Comments and Image

I read what I'd written and thought once again: from what violent chasms is my most intimate intimacy nourished, why does it deny itself so much and flee to the domain of ideas? I feel within me a subterranean violence, a violence that only comes to the surface during the act of writing.

Comments and Image

Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?

Comments and Image

I write as if to save somebody�s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

Comments and Image