It’s television, after all. No one is dead, even when they die.

The future is trash. Recycling it, re-arranging it. Making it beautiful again.

It’s not enough to say it; you would need to take it out of your mouth, you would need to become it. You would need to become what you were born to be. In actuality, or in each reality, underneath it all—I mean, behind it—the answer lies in

Literature sustains life because it captures death in its forward march. Clickety-clickety-clack, the wheels go round and round ...

It’s not enough to say it; you would need to take it out of your mouth, you would need to become it. You would need to become what you were born to be.

I couldn’t decide whether it was better to be the art, or the artist.

Always being myself and my salve, which is life. I’m not lonely, if that’s what it seems like. Always writing things down.

To own beauty is the first lie of it.

The convenient function of every celebrated machine for living is to produce machines to live in them.

Tangerine tango was still in. Cardigans without buttons were in. Bahia bands were in. Senhor do Bonfim. Make a wish? But hardly anyone considered the most radical move: be yourself. Beauty is always a revolutionary act.

In the act of creation, as in all the arts, the soul should be felt in the face and the fingers and the tongue, even in the cavities.

Live a life worth reading about. Then write it.

To be a writer and political is a dangerous thing. To be a writer and apolitical is even more dangerous. Art is right, left; in truth, it has only one direction and that is forward.

The mist after rain, uninterrupted rainfall on rooftops, pitter-patter intellect. The thoughts I leave behind like footsteps.

Nothing is more hip than a corpse. The style is timeless. Death is trending.