The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.
Between Ennui and Ecstasy unwinds our whole experience of time.
Reality is a creation of our excesses.
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
To exist is a habit I do not despair of acquiring.
To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?