I foresee the day when we shall read nothing but telegrams and prayers.

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

Torment, for some men, is a need, an appetite, and an accomplishment.

If I were to be totally sincere, I would say that I do not know why I live and why I do not stop living. The answer probably lies in the irrational character of life which maintains itself without reason.

Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.

To read is to let someone else work for you - the most delicate form of exploitation.