A people represents not so much an aggregate of ideas and theories as of obsessions.

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.

A self-respecting man is a man without a country. A fatherland is birdlime.

If we manage to last in spite of everything, it is because our infirmities are so many and so contradictory that they cancel each other out.

I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.

An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.

I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.