I have no other pictures of the world apart from those which express evanescence, and callousness, vanity and anger, emptiness, orhideous useless hate. Everything has merely confirmed what I had seen and understood in my childhood: futile and sordid fits of rage, cries suddenly blanketed by the silence, shadows swallowed up for ever by the night.

A man with a soul is not like every other man.

There are more dead people than living. And their numbers are increasing. The living are getting rarer.

All cats die. Socrates is dead. Therefore Socrates is a cat.

If I write a new play, my point of view may be profoundly modified. I may be obliged to contradict myself and I may no longer know whether I still think what I think.

The more I try to explain myself, the less I understand myself.

The end of childhood is when things cease to astonish us. When the world seems familiar, when one has got used to existence, one has become an adult.