We know the surrealist solution: concrete irrationality, objective risk. Poetry is the conquest, the only possible conquest, of the 'supreme position', 'a certain position of the mind from where life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future... cease to be perceived in a contradictory sense.'

The world in which we were called to exist was an absurd world, and there was no other in which we could take refuge.

Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.

Lying is not only saying what isn't true. It is also, in fact especially, saying more than is true and, in the case of the human heart, saying more than one feels. We all do it, every day, to make life simpler.

There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts.

Once one's up against it, the precise manner of one's death has obviously small importance.

It is normal to give away a little of one's life in order not to lose it all.