So my life is a point-counterpoint, a kind of fugue, and a falling away–and everything winds up being lost to me, and everything falls into oblivion, or into the hands of the other man.

Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.

The library will endure; it is the universe. As for us, everything has not been written; we are not turning into phantoms. We walk the corridors, searching the shelves and rearranging them, looking for lines of meaning amid leagues of cacophony and incoherence, reading the history of the past and our future, collecting our thoughts and collecting the thoughts of others, and every so often glimpsing mirrors, in which we may recognize creatures of the information.

I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left.

Nothing is built on stone; all is built on sand, but we must build as if the sand were stone.

Art always opts for the individual, the concrete; art is not Platonic.