Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

Scarcely anything in literature is worth a damn except what is written between the lines.

There are no vital and significant forms of art; there is only art, and precious little of that.

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

Everything that is written merely to please the author is worthless.

So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.

Nothing on earth really matters, there is nothing to fear, and death is but a question of style, a mere literary device, a musical resolution.

Poetry makes nothing happen.

I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.

Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.

Writing is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin.

There is nothing new except what has been forgotten.

The silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega. It is God’s brooding over the face of the waters; it is the blended note of the ten thousand things, the whine of wings.