At last, after innumerable glamorous and frightful years, mankind approaches a war which is totally predictable from beginning to end.

The party of God and the party of Literature have more in common than either will admit their texts may conflict, but their bigotries coincide. Both insist on being the sole custodians of the true word and its only interpreters.

Vichy proves one thing: if you don't want to know how low your fellow citizens can fall, and crawl, don't lose a war.

Talk isn't work. Work is when you have pages in the evening that you didn't have in the morning.

I could do without sex. Don't really like it that much. If I could just feel complete.

Words, isolated in the velvet of radio, took on a jeweled particularity. Television has quite the opposite effect: words are drowned in the visual soup in which they are obliged to be served.

Great restaurants are, of course, nothing but mouth-brothels. There is no point in going to them if one intends to keep one's belt buckled.