You Don't Even Live Once.

When I Don't Make Any Progress, It Is Because I Have Bumped Into The Wall Of Language. Then I Draw Back With A Bloody Head. And Would Like To Go On.

It Is Regarded As Normal To Consecrate Virginity In General And To Lust For Its Destruction In Particular.

In A Hollow Head There Is Much Room For Knowledge.

My Request That My Writing Be Read Twice Has Aroused Great Indignation. Unjustly So. After All, I Do Not Ask That They Be Read Once.

Progress, Under Whose Feet The Grass Mourns And The Forest Turns Into Paper From Which Newspaper Plants Grow, Has Subordinated The Purpose Of Life To The Means Of Subsistence And Turned Us Into The Nuts And Bolts For Our Tools.