Shakespeare was the great one before us. His place was between God and despair.

Realism falls short of reality. It shrinks it, attenuates it, falsifies it; it does not take into account our basic truths and our fundamental obsessions: love, death, astonishment. It presents man in a reduced and estranged perspective. Truth is in our dreams, in the imagination.

Shakespeare was the great one before us. His place was between God and despair.

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

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

It's not a certain society that seems ridiculous to me, it's mankind.

As soon as one knows one is going to die, childhood is over.... So one can be grown up at seven. Then, I believe most human beings forget what they have understood, recover another sort of childhood that can last all their lives. It is not a true childhood but a kind of forgetting. Desires and anxieties are there, preventing you from having access to the essential truth.