Actually, when I write, there is a feeling of necessity, of something that is stronger than myself that demands that I must write as I write.

Contrary to what phenomenology- which is always phenomenology of perception- has tried to make us believe, contrary to what our desire cannot fail to be tempted into believing, the thing itself always escapes.

I’m no good for anything except taking the world apart and putting it together again (and I manage the latter less and less frequently).

No one will ever know from what secret I am writing and the fact that I say so changes nothing.

One often speaks without seeing, without knowing, without meaning what one says.

Learning to live ought to mean learning to die - to acknowledge, to accept, an absolute mortality - without positive outcome,or resurrection, or redemption, for oneself or for anyone else. That has been the old philosophical injunction since Plato: to be a philosopher is to learn how to die.

The blindness that opens the eye is not the one that darkens vision. Tears and not sight are the essence of the eye.