Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.

Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.

I have decided not to oppose anyone ever again, since I have noticed that I always end by resembling my latest enemy.

Between the demand to be clear,and the temptation to be obscure, impossible to decide which deserves more respect.

The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are.

Our first intuitions are the true ones.

To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?