A special kind of beauty exists which is born in language, of language, and for language.

The best proof of the specificity of the book is that it is at once a reality of the virtual and a virtuality of the real.

The human being taken in his profound reality as well as in his great tension of becoming is a divided being, a being which divides again, having permitted himself the illusion of unity for barely an instant. He divides and then reunites.

Ideas are invented only as correctives to the past. Through repeated rectification of this kind one may hope to disengage an idea that is valid.

Here is Menard's own intimate forest: 'Now I am traversed by bridle paths, under the seal of sun and shade...I live in great density...Shelter lures me. I slump down into the thick foliage...In the forest, I am my entire self. Everything is possible in my heart just as it is in the hiding places in ravines. Thickly wooded distance separates me from moral codes and cities.

We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection

Irony gives us, at little expense, the impression that we are experienced psychologists.