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In what will survive me I am in harmony with my annihilation.

Georges Bataille

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"The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth."

Georges Bataille

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"Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self."

The Collected Works, Franz Kafka

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 A glorious little suffering has just been born, an exemplary suffering. Four notes on the saxophone. They come and go, they seem to say: You must be like us, suffer in rhythm. 

Nausea, Jean Paul Sartre

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But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.

Letters, Franz Kafka

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...and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.

The Castle, Franz Kafka

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The Collected Works, Emily Dickinson

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...I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire... I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it.

The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner

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I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can’t help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year.

White Nights, Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"Myth is not prehistory; it is timeless reality, which repeats itself in history."

Ernst Jünger

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I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.

No Exit, Jean Paul Sartre

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"A book is not an isolated being: it is a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships."

Jorge Luis Borges

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"We want to decipher skies and paintings, go behind these starry backgrounds or these painted canvases and, like kids trying to find a gap in a fence, try to look through the cracks in the world."

The Cruel Practice of Art, Georges Bataille

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The Impossible, Georges Bataille

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On Heights of Despair, Emil Cioran

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The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don’t know where that elsewhere is.

The trouble with being born, Emil Cioran

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“What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?”

Paris Spleen, Charles Baudelaire