Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.

Basis of society: anonymous sweat.

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence.

Espousing the melancholy of ancient symbols, I would have freed myself.

Mind, even more deadly to empires than to individuals, erodes them, compromises their solidity.

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?