Existing Is Plagiarism.

To Devastate By Language, To Blow Up The Word And With It The World.

To Write Books Is To Have A Certain Relation With Original Sin. For What Is A Book If Not A Loss Of Innocence, An Act Of Aggression, A Repetition Of Our Fall?

We Derive Our Vitality From Our Store Of Madness.

Hungarian Language — Savage It May Be But Of A Beauty That Has Nothing Human About It, With Sonorities Of Another Universe, Powerful And Corrosive, Appropriate To Prayer, To Groans And To Tears, Risen Out Of Hell To Perpetuate Its Accent And Its Aura…words Of Nectar And Cyanide.

Tyrants Are Always Assassinated Too Late. That Is Their Great Excuse.