Prophesying catastrophe is incredibly banal. The more original move is to assume that it has already happened.

Every woman is like a time-zone. She is a nocturnal fragment of your journey. She brings you unflaggingly closer to the next night.

The surprises of thought are like those of love: they wear out. But here too you can carry on for a long time doing your conjugal duty.

The sumptuous age of stars and images is reduced to a few artificial tornado effects, pathetic fake buildings, and childish tricks which the crowd pretends to be taken in by to avoid feeling too disappointed. Ghost towns, ghost people. The whole place has the same air of obsolescence about it as Sunset or Hollywood Boulevard.

It is always the same: once you are liberated, you are forced to ask who you are.

The sickly cultural pathos which the whole of France indulges in, that fetishism of the cultural heritage.

There is nothing more mysterious than a TV set left on in an empty room. It is even stranger than a man talking to himself or a woman standing dreaming at her stove. It is as if another planet is communicating with you.