We inhabit a language rather than a country.

What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.

The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary.

One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland - and no other.

I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.

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

No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.