We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
Each time I fail to think about death, I have the impression of cheating, of deceiving someone in me.
Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.
True moral elegance consists in the art of disguising one's victories as defeats.
We inhabit a language rather than a country.
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?