It is enough for me to hear someone talk sincerely about ideals, about the future, about philosophy, to hear him say “we" with a certain inflection of assurance, to hear him invoke "others" and regard himself as their interpreter - for me to consider him my enemy.

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.

The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.

A garbled quotation is equivalent to a betrayal, an insult, a prejudice.

Each concession we make is accompanied by an inner diminution of which we are not immediately conscious.

I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.

A regret understood by no one: the regret to be a pessimist. It’s not easy to be on the wrong foot with life.