No code of ethics and no effort are justifiable a priori in the face of the cruel mathematics that command our condition.

Ironic philosophies produce passionate works.

I do not believe in God and I am not an atheist.

Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.

Then we understand that rebellion cannot exist without a strange form of love. Those who find no rest in God or in history are condemned to live for those who, like themselves, cannot live; in fact, for the humiliated.

The future is the only kind of property that the masters willingly concede to the slaves.

Integrity has no need of rules.