I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction.

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.

Not every woman is a prostitute, but prostitution is the natural apotheosis of the feminine attitude.

The anguish of the neurotic individual is the same as that of the saint. The neurotic, the saint are engaged in the same battle. Their blood flows from similar wounds. But the first one gasps and the other one gives.

The sovereign being is burdened with a servitude that crushes him, and the condition of free men is deliberate servility.

Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things.

Though the immediate impression of rebellion may obscure the fact, the task of authentic literature is nevertheless only conceivable in terms of a desire for fundamental communication with the reader.