I had a strong desire to write and some free time.

A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of it's complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.

When man, Apollo man, rockets into space, it isn't in order to find his brother, I'm quite sure of that. It's to confirm that he hasn't any brothers.

Life has confirmed for me the thoughts and impressions I had when I was 18, as if it was all intuition.

It isn't common sense that is paramount in this world, it's wishful thinking.

It amused me to think that one can tell the truth when one is drunk and nobody will believe it.

The questions I would have liked to ask people were: ‘Are you in love? What are you reading?