How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.

In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

To have committed every crime but that of being a father.

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom.