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He wanted everything at once, he wanted to destroy the book and he feared for the book's survival. For weeks he had typed two hours a day for me. Drafts, different stages of the book. He knew that the book was already in existence. He would say, 'What the fuck are you doing writing all the time all day long? You've been abandoned by everyone. You're crazy, you're the slut of Normandy coast, a fool, you're embarrassing.' He was afraid I'd die before the book was completed, maybe, or rather, that I'd throw the book away, once again.

- pg. 21-22

You will think the miracle is not in the apparent similarity between each of the particles that make up those millions of men in their continuous hurling, but in the irreductible difference that separates them from each other, that separates men from dogs, dogs from film, sand from the sea, God from the dog or from that tenacious gull struggling against the wind, from the liquid crystal of your eyes, from the sharp crystal of the sands, from the unbreathable foul air in the hall of that hotel after the dazzling light of the beach, from each word, from each sentence, from each line in each book, from each day and each century and each eternity past or future, and from you and from me.

- pg. 35-36