The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are.

We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.

By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?

The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.

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?