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Above all she had been fascinated by the word independence more than by any other, but she had fallen prey to the word.

I must have made a pitiful, indeed pitiable impression on an observer, though there was none- unless I'm going to say that I am an observer of myself, which is stupid, since I'm my observer anyway: I've actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists only of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self- condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery.

How fragile we are! I thought, We're full of such brave words and constantly go on everyday about how hard and sensible we are, and then from one moment to the next we cave in and have to choke back our tears.

We often fail to realize that if we want to go on existing we need to summon up all our strength in order to wrench ourselves off the spot where we're struck.

But i was probably ashamed to tell her that I made her come to Peiskam only because of this work, which I'd not yet begun, that I was capable, in other words, of exploiting her as a mere tool for my intellectual product. The so-called man of the intellectual constantly walks all over others, killing them making corpses of them for his intellectual purposes.

...I'm not honest in the sense you mean, the only emotions I experience are in the form of genuine pretence, I consider your kind of honesty a from of poverty, the supreme truth is to pretend, I've always believed that

I've always preferred the material to the imaginary, or rather, I've always preferred to inflame the imagination with the material, the imagination should be handled with care, even the collective imagination, someone should have told Herr Jung that food always comes before the imagination.

I'd rather speak Portuguese, this is a Portuguese adventure after all, an I don't want to step outside my adventure.

The present-day form of publication was printing in type. But he had had the opposite kind of surprise too.

And yet she knew that in that very same moment she was enjoying so calmly, I Was suffering the tortures of the damned in my personal hell of analyzing and imagining. How could such an implacable, cold, unspeakable beast have crept into heart of this fragile woman!

I was exuberant about the signature: María. Such simplicity gave me a vague feeling of possession, a vague sense that girl was now a part of my life and that, in a certain way, she now belonged to me.

By the time elevator door opened I was very clear about what I must do: not utter a word. In that case, why take the elevator at all ? Because it would have been too conspicuous not too, when several people had seen me waiting. What would they think?

I had no witness against me left but my own memory. Since then I have become calmer. Growing old, after all, means that one no longer fears the past.

Was I ever happier in my life than in that hour ? I don't know. Beside me in the carriage sat the young man who had been a prey to death and disaster yesterday and now, in amazement, stood in the spray of the sparkling white dome of the sun above; years seemed to have dropped away from him.

...it's true that I would find it difficult to give a clear name to the feeling that drew me so compulsively after the unfortunate man, there was curiousity in it, but above all a dreadful fear, or rather a fear of something dreadful, something I had felt invisibly enveloping the young man like a miasma from the first moment.

'Am I free, the ?' she said, tears in her voice, as she watched the pigeons fly off.

Some days earlier, looking out at this same grove, he had questioned Shuichi, and drawn from him the news of Kikuko's abortion.
The pines were no longer just pines. They were entangled with the abortion. Perhaps would always be reminded of it when he passed them to from work.

Living together for long years, had the two become one ? had the old wife lost her identity, was she without a testament to leave behind ?
Was it that the woman, with no compulsion to die, went in attendance upon her husband, has had her part in the husband's testament, without bitterness, regret, hesitations ? It all seemed very odd to Shingo.

The moon was in a blaze. Or so, just then, it seemed to Shingo.
The clouds around the moon made him think of the flames behind Acala in a painting of a fox- spirit. They were coiling, twisted clouds.

Still, Kikuko had been reared as the pet of the family, it seemed. She was not spoiled, precisely, but seemed to expect affection. And there was something a little weak about her.

Myself, working against the act of creating, I have made myself the creator. Here I am, conscious of the absolute as of an object I am creating at the same time I am struggling not to create myself. That which has never had any principle admits me at its eternal beginning, I who am the stubborn refusal of my beginning.

As voices were called down upon my existence, affirming in succession, with equal passion: 'He exists for always, he does not exist for always,' that existence took on a fatal character in their eyes.

Anne heard this voice: what good was it, her mother was no longer anything more than an insignificant being. She also heard Thomas; in fact, she knew now what she had to say to Thomas, she knew exactly the words she had searched for all her life in order to reach him. But she remained silent; she thought: what good is it - and this word was also the word she was seeking- Thomas is insignificant. Let us sleep.

It was in this situation that she penetrated as a vague shape into the existence of Thomas. Everything there appeared desolate and mournful. deserted shores where deeper and deeper absences, abandoned by the eternally departed sea after a magnificent shipwreck, gradually decomposed. She passed through strange dead cities where, rather than petrified shapes, mummified circumstances, she found a necropolis of movements

From one moment to the next one might anticipate, between those bodies bound so intimately together by such fragile bonds, a contact which would reveal in a terrible way their lack of bonds.

In fact, he was really walking and, with a body like others, though three-quarters consumed, he penetrated a region where, if he himself disappeared, he immediately saw the others fall into another nothingness which placed them further from him than if they had continued to live.

The pleasure in fact became very great. It became so great, so pitiless that he bore it with a sort of terror, and in the intolerable moment when he had stood forward without receiving from his interlocutor any sign of complicity, he perceived all the strangeness there was in being observed by a word as if by a living being, and not simply by one word, but by all the words that were in that word,

The temptation took on an entirely bizarre character when he sought to slip from the drop of water into a region which was vague and yet infinitely precise, a sort of holy place, so perfectly suited to him that it was enough for him to be there, to be; it was like an imaginary hollow which he entered because, before he was there, his imprint was there already. And so he made a last effort to fit completely inside.

An oppressive self-consciousness made me appear unnatural during the first few days of the photographing; now I have overcome that, and, if my image has the same thoughts I had when it was taken, as I believe it does, then I shall spend eternity in the joyous contemplation of Faustine.

To be on an island inhabited by artificial ghosts was the most unbearable of nightmares, to be in love with one of those images was worse than being in love with a ghost (perhaps we always want the person we love to have the existence of a ghost).