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

There is no shame in preferring happiness.

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.

Murder is terribly exhausting.

No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and emotions shared by all.

For me, physical love has always been bound to an irresistible feeling of innocence and joy. Thus, I cannot love in tears but in exaltation.

Man wants to live, but it is useless to hope that this desire will dictate all his actions.