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.

If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.

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

Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself - there is no wish I make more often.

Transmitting one's flaws [through procreation] to someone else is a crime. I could never consent to give life to someone who would inherent my ailments.

We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.

One cannot live without motives. I have no motives left, and I am living.