I have the most conflicting opinions, the most divergent beliefs. For it’s never I who thinks, speaks or acts. It’s always one of my dreams, which I momentarily embody, that thinks, speaks and acts for me. I open my mouth, but it’s I-another who speaks. The only thing I feel to be really mine is a huge incapacity, a vast emptiness, an incompetence for everything that is life. I don’t know the gestures for any real act.....

I never learned how to exist.

I obtain everything I want, as long as it’s inside me.

I’d like the reading of this book to leave you with the impression that you’ve traversed a sensual nightmare.

What used to be moral is aesthetic for us. What was social is now individual.

Why should I look at twilights if I have within me thousands of diverse twilights – including some that aren’t twilights – and if, besides seeing them inside me, I myself am them, on the inside and the outside?