Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

We interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation.

Every hundred feet$$$ the world changes.

Books are finite$$$ sexual encounters are finite$$$ but the desire to read and to fuck is infinite; it surpasses our own deaths$$$ our fears$$$ our hopes for peace.

We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important$$$ about something real?

Human it is to have compassion on the unhappy.

When you're without problems$$$ you're dead.

Anything could go wrong any day of the week. What's the point of worrying in advance?

Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law.

Good taste is the excuse I've always given for leading such a bad life.