I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me.

I'm a man for whom the outside world is an inner Reality.

I am the suburb of a non-existent town, the prolix commentary on a book never written. I am nobody, nobody. I am a character in a novel which remains to be written, and I float, aerial, scattered without ever having been, among the dreams of a creature who did not know how to finish me off.

The Gods sell when they give. Glory is paid for with disgrace. Poor are the happy, for they are Just what passes.

What's given, in fact, always depends on the person or thing it's given to. A minor incident in the street brings the cook to the door and entertains him more than I would be entertained by contemplating the most original idea, by reading the greatest book, or by having the most gratifying of useless dreams. If life is basically monotony, he has escaped it more than I. And he escapes it more easily than I. The truth isn't with him or with me, because it isn't with anyone, but happiness does belong to him.

We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.

Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.