Today I suddenly experienced an absurd but quite valid sensation. I realized, in an intimate lightning flash, that I am no one. No one, absolutely no one.

Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.

Never read a book to the end, nor even in sequence and without skipping.

I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.

I always live in the present. I don’t know the future and no longer have the past. The former oppresses me as the possibility of everything, the latter as the reality of nothing.

There’s enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.

Art consists in making others feel what we feel.