Drama lies in extreme exaggeration of the feelings, an exaggeration that dislocates flat everyday reality.

We are all looking for something of extraordinary importance whose nature we have forgotten; I am writing the memoirs of a man who has lost his memory.

Describe a circle, stroke its back and it turns vicious.

It isn't what people think that is important, but the reason they think what they think.

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.

The critic should describe, and not prescribe.

Boredom flourishes too, when you feel safe. It's a symptom of security.