“ This morning, on the avenue, my death was walking next to me, under the plane-trees. I came back home, lied on the bed. My death looked tired as much as I was. A few minuts later, I woke up, made a coffee and opened a poems book. Some light came out from the book. I think it was at this moment that my death left the appartment, crossing the door, without noise. It was not her time, and perhaps she was depressed by the beauty of a few words, yes, perhaps the death doesn't support books and prefers the head ache maker television.”

“Today, my love, I am too tired to write for you. You will find in your heart a letter, several pages, full of silence. Read it slowly. The light of this day wrote it for me. In it, it si just about you and the rest coming to me each time I look to you, far away, hundreds kilometers from here.”

“And now the thought came to me that I lived much of my life through the pages of books as well. That perhaps I, too, was only a paper figure. A cut-out, or silhouette. Flat.I always thought I knew the shape of my life. Of course I thought I knew about life, thought I knew all I needed - or wanted - to know. And yet, like the opening left when a burning star falls from its perch, now an unexpected hole was left in what was once a solid curtain of understanding... ( )... Sitting under the cold stars, I understood that it was death that made me recognize life, and the existence, or pherhaps the non-existence of my own beeing.”

“Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.”

“On peut donner bien des choses à ceux que l'on aime. Des paroles, un repos, du plaisir. Tu m'as donné le plus précieux de tout : le manque. Il m'était impossible de me passer de toi, même quand je te voyais, tu me manquais encore.”

“I once met Death, but she told me that she was on her period. Because of that, I couldn't sleep with her. When she came back to me the second time, I simply ignored her, which really pissed her off. Now, Death has become my enemy. I love the fact that Death is my enemy, and yet I trust her more than anyone else.”

“But for me to start the journey of writing a book about my life, the first place I had to re visit was my past. A book written from the deepest part of my heart as so many tears at times did fall upon the keyboard as I typed away.”