Sometimes I think I'm liquefying like an old Camembert.

As humanity perfects itself, man becomes degraded. When everything is reduced to the mere counter-balancing of economic interests, what room will there be for virtue? When Nature has been so subjugated that she has lost all her original forms, where will that leave the plastic arts? And so on. In the mean time, things are going to get very murky.

How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.

What I would like to write is a book about nothing, a book without exterior attachments, which would be held together by the innerforce of its style, as the earth without support is held in the air--a book that would have almost no subject or at least in which the subject would be almost invisible.

Sometimes I think I'm liquefying like an old Camembert.

I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.

One never tires of what is well written, style is life! It is the very blood of thought!