Human history is the sad result of each one looking out for himself.

I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.

Come sleep with me: We won't make Love,Love will make us.

Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.

Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.

The evolution from happiness to habit is one of death's best weapons.

Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.

Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.

The novel wins by points, the short story by knockout.

A short story relies on those values that make poetry and jazz what they are: tension, rhythms, inner beat, into unforeseen within foreseen parameters

Everything can be killed except nostalgia for the kingdom, we carry it in the color of our eyes, in every love affair, in everything that deeply torments and unties and tricks.

Don’t doubt your dreams.

Bake a lie into proven facts and you will be surprised at how many fall for it.

People don't change their behavior unless it makes a difference for them to do so.

I am still trying to find out things. And I inevitably tell myself the story in different ways every time I think about it.

The only thing worse than watching a bad movie is being in one.

Spiritually, it's always there. It gets better and better all the time. One of these days I'll just finally release all that out.

That makes sense, I suppose. But for me, reading is an adventure. It makes me an armchair traveler and takes me places I shall never be able to go.

When it comes to bombshells, there are few that can be more effective than that small, flat, frail thing, a letter.

The Dead was cool, It's a great horror story. I went to the casting director of this movie and talked to him, then they called my agent and had me come in and read for it and they wanted to use me.

Through the blackest night, morning gently tiptoes, feeling its way to dawn.