To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.

A book has to dig through the wounds, more, it has cause a new one, a book it has to be dangerous.

The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.

There is not much difference between a mortal man and a dying man. The absurdity of making plans is only slightly more obvious in the second case.

Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.