“The courts have their job to do, and we have ours. Far too often, they get to tell us what to do and when, but the judges know that the line exists, and most stay on their side of it. I’m not about to start giving them the ground that we still own.”

“For sometime now I have believed that it is our own force, all our own force that is still too great for us. It is true that we do not know it; but is it not just that which is most our own of which we know the least?”

“Don't we all have a certain number of images that stay around in our head, which we undoubtedly call memories and improperly so, and which we can never get rid of because they return in our sky with the regularity of a comet - torn away also from a world about which we know almost nothing? They return more frequently than comets do, in fact. It would be better, then, to speak of them as loyal satellites, a bit capricious and therefore even troublesome: they appear, disappear, suddenly come back to badger our memory at night when we cannot sleep. But, little as we may care to, as our hearts tell us to, we can also observe them at will, coldly, scrutinize their shadows, colors, and relief. Only, they are dead stars: from them we shall never grasp anything other than the certainty that we have already seen them, examined them, questioned them without really understanding the laws that the line of their mysterious orbits obeyed.”

“When somebody builds me a time machine, I'm taking a trip back in time to find the inventor of the necktie and strangle him with one.”

“We discover that we do not know our role; we look for a mirror; we want to remove our make-up and take off what is false and real. But somewhere a piece of disguise that we forgot still sticks to us. A trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not notice that the corners of our mouth are bent. And so we walk around, a mockery and a mere half: neither having achieved being nor actors.”

“You killed ’em both, babe. They’re both dead,” he babbled, shaking. “I had to,” she said, pointing the gun at the corpse lying at her feet. “That one saw me naked.”

“My idea of Hell is to be stuck in a library where all the books were authored by Marcel Proust.”