No human beings are more dangerous than those who have suffered for a belief

Pursued by our origins... we all are.

History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.

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.

What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.

Old age, after all, is merely the punishment for having lived.