I love language as I love life itself!

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.

I say things that contradict each other, that are in real tension with each other, that compose me, that make me live, and that will make me die.

In Algeria, I had begun to get into literature and philosophy. I dreamed of writing-and already models were instructing the dream, a certain language governed it.

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

To pretend, I actually do the thing: I have therefore only pretended to pretend.

I wrote some bad poetry that I published in North African journals, but even as I withdrew into this reading, I also led the life of a kind of young hooligan.