The Hour of the Star

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.

So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.

I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed

Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?

But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don’t know why, but I do know that the universe never began. Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.

For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.

Who hasn't asked himself, am I a monster or is this what it means to be human?

To eat communion bread will be to taste the world's indifference, and to immerse myself in nothingness.

For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.

And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn’t have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

Meanwhile, the clouds are white and the sky is blue. Why is there so much God? At the expense of men.

I cannot stand repetition: routine divides me from potential novelties within my reach.

She wasn’t crying because of the life she led: because, never having led any other, she’d accepted that with her that was just the way things were. But I also think she was crying because, through the music, she might have guessed there were other ways of feeling,

Why don’t clouds fall, since everything else does? Because gravity is less than the strength of the air that keeps them up there. Clever, right? Yes, but one day they fall as rain. That is my revenge.

Escribo porque no tengo nada que hacer en el mundo: estoy de sobra y no hay lugar para mí en la tierra de los hombres. Escribo por mi desesperación y mi cansancio, ya no soporto la rutina de ser yo, y si no existiese la novedad continua que es escribir, me moriría simbólicamente todos los días. Pero estoy preparado para salir con discreción por la puerta trasera. He experimentado casi todo, aun la pasión y su desesperanza. Ahora sólo querría tener lo que hubiera sido y no fui

First of all, I must make it clear that this girl does not know herself apart from the fact that she goes on living aimlessly. Were she foolish enough to ask herself 'Who am I?', she would fall flat on her face. For the question 'Who am I?' creates a need. And how does one satisfy that need? To probe oneself is to recognize that one is incomplete.

As soon as you discover the truth it's already gone: the moment passed. I ask: what is it? Reply: it's not.

She knew what desire was — though she didn’t know she knew. It was like this: she was starving but not for food, it was a kind of painful taste that rose from the pit of her stomach and made her nipples quiver and her arms empty without an embrace.

I am only true when I’m alone.

There are those who have. And there are those who have not. It's very simple: the girl had not. Hadn't what? Simply this: she had not. If you get my meaning that's fine. If you don't, it's still fine.

The doctor simply refused to take pity. And added: when you don’t know what to eat make a nice Italian spaghetti.

I am not an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog.